In a Heartbeat
by lilacbird
Summary: I wonder if it's true what they say. About your life flashing before your eyes when you die... This is L. This is his life. In a heartbeat. On hold until I finish my exams! Will be picked up again in a month or so.
1. Prologue

**Because so much can pass in a heartbeat. Sometimes even an entire lifetime.**

--

I'm motionless. Utterly still. Completely frozen in my usual crouched position on my chair as I stare blankly at the buzzing computer screen before me. I can feel the panic and fear radiating off the people around me, but I remain unaffected. It's not that I don't _want_ to feel anything. I just _can't._

I hear footsteps hammering at the ground- some of the team are leaving. I don't bother to call them back. There's no point. Not any more.

I slowly raise the spoon from the half-eaten cake in front of me. Even in such a situation, it would be a betrayal to my stomach to waste it. The metal clinks against the china plate.

And then it hits me. A sharp pain in my chest. I can feel it like a sharp blade twisting around inside of me, and it tightens its grip on my heart and squeezes, squeezes until I can't breathe.

My entire body stiffens, and my throat tightens. I can't draw in any air, no matter how hard I try. My limbs grow heavy, and I am weak. I am so weak that I can't even support my own weight, and I can feel myself slowly tipping to one side, and there's nothing I can do about it, and I'm falling, falling...

And then I feel strong arms around me, and a body folding around mine, breaking my fall as I crash to the floor. I look up at him, my eyes wide, but not afraid. I had no reason to be afraid any more. His arms tighten around me, almost protectively.

How odd, I think, that I should die like this. In his arms. It's almost funny. I would laugh, but it would hurt too much, and I'm not too fond of the idea of making my life any more painful. Making my _death_ any more painful.

He smiled at me, a cruel, warped, twisted smile. It was hard to bear. But I knew I wouldn't have to bear it for long. I tried to think, to remember how he used to smile, but my brain isn't working properly, and for the first time in my life I can't think. _I can't think_. And it's terrifying.

I cough, trying desperately to force air into my lungs, though inside I know it is futile. But I don't want to give in to that smile, those eyes. How foolish of me, I thought, to think that I could cheat death just by wanting it enough.

I wonder if it's true what they say. About your life flashing before your eyes just before you die. I wonder... I can't remember what I was wondering. It's strange, how so much can pass in a heartbeat. A thought. A life. It was almost poetic.

I'd never been one for poetry.

My own heartbeat is slowing. I can hear it roaring in my ears, slamming against my ribcage, as if fighting to be free. But with each thud, it gets weaker. It's giving up its fight. No, don't give up, not yet...

I'm getting tired. My mind is clouding, and so is my vision. His face is blurring before my eyes, the room darkening. I'm getting tired. I want to sleep, but I know I musn't, because if I do I'll never wake up, but I know it's useless to fight it and I might as well just give up, just give in, just give up and die...

I'm getting tired. I'm getting more tired by the second and I can feel my eyes closing and the world darkening and my breath slowing and my heartbeat fading and my consciousness slipping and I'm going to sleep and I'm going to sleep and I'm going to sleep...

--

**I'm sure a few of you will be curious to know why L died in the first chapter. The reason is this- I'm using the 'life flashes before your eyes' theory. Think of this as a prologue because as from now, we are going to travel back in time; way back to before the beginning, starting from the very moment L was brought into this dark, cruel, unloving world.**

**This is L. This is his life. In a heartbeat.**


	2. In the Beginning

**L was one of the greatest minds the world has ever known, but he was brought into this world as weak and as vulnerable as any one of us.**

--

I was found in an abandoned shopping cart in a run-down park just outside of St Petersburg, Russia. It was early morning, and I had been out there all night in the freezing autumn air. I should have died. But I didn't.

I don't remember my mother or the circumstances of my birth- how could I? All I know is what I was told. And the rest... I make it up.

Perhaps she was young. Perhaps she was still in school. Perhaps she was religious. Perhaps she was raped. I don't know. She must have had a reason for leaving me there, with a metal cage for a cradle. She must have.

Ha.

It's odd, I am usually so matter-of-fact. But for some reason I always find myself making up excuses for her. In truth, she might not have had a reason. She might have taken one look at me and simply tossed me aside like garbage for being such a strange, ugly creature. An alien attached to her body.

So there I was, buried in rubbish and freezing cold. Did I cry? I suppose I must have. My lungs were tiny and my mouth was the size of a polo mint, but I cried for all I was worth, my face screwed up and my legs pressed up against my chest and my tiny fists failing.

But it was the middle of the night, and there was no-one in the park to hear my desperate cries, and by morning my shrieks had faded to pitiful little bleats. My skin was blue from the cold.

I was discovered early morning by a group of children who were skipping school. They had come to the park to play football, because they knew no-one would be there to ask why they weren't in school. Which one of them noticed me first? I don't know. It was... It was the quiet one, the youngest, the one who didn't really want to play truant, but was persuaded to by the others. He wasn't laughing and joking with his friends, and so he heard me crying.

Trotting over to the rusty old shopping cart, he gingerly peeled back the damp newspapers and last week's takeaway boxes. I imagine he must have screamed when he saw me, all purple and slimy, with the bloody umbilical cord protruding from my belly. He shouted to his friends. They gathered round me, the air suddenly alive with chatter, and fingers poked.

I didn't like it. I screamed.

They panicked. Some of them wanted to leave me there, because they feared they would get in trouble if adults found out they weren't in school, but not that youngest boy. He was the one who saved me. He ran straight to the nearest shop- a post office over two blocks away. Nobody believed him at first. That would be the most logical conclusion. But perhaps one person was just a little curious, just slightly intrigued, and they followed him back to the park, to me.

That person was the first person ever to hold me. They picked me up and wrapped me in their shirt, not even caring that I was just a few hours old and still covered in blood. I huddled closer, desperate for warmth. I was lucky they found me when they did. Any later, and I would have died.

Someone phoned an ambulance- and the police. I was taken away from the warmth of my saviour's arms. I wish I could remember that person, but even a mind like mine cannot be cast back to the first day of my life. I can't even recall whether they were male or female.

I was bundled into an ambulance, wrapped in blankets and zoomed off to the nearest hospital, a ventilator at the ready for the moment my tiny lungs would give up and stop working.

I was bathed in a bowl of too-hot water in a huge white room that smelled of chemicals. They cut my cord properly. I had no clothes, but they gave me a nappy and a blanket. They fed me too with warm milk from a bottle. I didn't need to be taught how to suck. As soon as the teat of the bottle touched my lips I latched onto it, suddenly realizing how desperately hungry I was. I drank until I fell asleep.

When I woke up I found I had been thrust into a big glass tank, like some small animal or dangerous disease that they wanted to contain. The room was bright. Too bright. I was surrounded by dark uniforms and serious frowns and voices chattering some unintelligible gibberish.

I didn't know at the time, but it must have been the police, asking about me. Where they had found me, how my health was holding out, whether they had any idea who my parents were. Of course, nobody had any idea. I was a mystery. A monster. A mistake.

So I was taken away and placed in a room full of other infants. There were rows and rows of us, all confined to glass tanks- our very own 'cradles'. The room was huge and white and blinding and filled with the constant shrieks of babies wanting their bottles of needing a change of nappy.

That was where I spent my first week, waiting for someone to come and claim me. Often people would walk in and pick up a child and hold them in their arms and take them away, to a home of their own. Then another baby would be brought in to take their place. I was never claimed, of course.

Those first few days, I wasn't really a person. I was just a slight annoyance, a flea bite that the nurses and doctors had to impatiently tend to. I was just one of many. A number. A letter.

L.

--

**I had honestly intended this chapter to be a lot longer, but as this is written in L's point of view, it was a little hard to work out how to write it. Of course, he wouldn't be able to remember the first day of his life. I assume most of this is a figment of his imagination. With the very limited facts he was told about himself, he managed to create in his mind a turn of events that were near accurate. Or at least that's how I meant it to be.**

**The next chapter will be depicting L's infancy and very early childhood.**


	3. What if, Maybe

'**Maybe' doesn't exist in the real world. But if it did, then maybe 'L' would never have existed.**

--

Days passed. The days turned into weeks, and eventually it became clear to everyone that nobody was going to come and claim me. They put an article out in the local newspaper enquiring about my mother, but she either didn't know where I was or didn't care. When I was in my teens I did some research and found a copy of that newspaper. There, crammed into the corner of the seventh page, was a tiny picture of me and a few small sentences telling where I had been found and the hospital I was at. I clipped the article and I saved it, keeping it safe between the pages of my worn old 'Hound of the Baskervilles' book. It was the only picture I had of myself as a baby. It wasn't very clear- I got the impression that the cameraman must have been tired or rushed. Or maybe he just didn't care.

I wasn't a very attractive baby. I used to think, with a dash of bitterness, that there was no wonder my mother left me in the shopping cart, like a used product she wanted to take back to the shop. I got the feeling that I slept a lot- surprising, considering how little I slept when I grew older. But I had no worries to keep me awake when I was a baby. I was sleeping in the photo, too. Though the picture wasn't in colour, I could make out the shock of black hair that covered my head, even at such a young age. Though I was asleep, my face as screwed up as if I was having a particularly bad nightmare. My legs were a white blur- I must have been kicking when the photo was taken. Maybe I was starting to cry. Did anyone pick me up and comfort me?

After a week, I think people forgot about me. It was an easy thing to do. There were so many babies, after all. What difference was one from the other? They still fed me and bathed me and changed me, but they had forgotten all about the circumstances of my birth. They just thought I was another child that had been born in one of their wards.

Then one day, about two weeks after they found me, they gave me away, to a young couple. It was an accident. Their baby had been small with a mass of black hair, too. So I was seized from my little tank and thrust into the arms of a stranger, where I was cradled lovingly. It was the first bit of love I had experienced in my short life. I was strapped into a carrier cot and loaded into the back of a run-down old family car and driven away from the hospital.

The journey was long and bumpy, and the milk I had been given just an hour before began to churn and turn sour in my stomach. I was horribly, milkily sick all down my front and all over my new mother. But instead of the impatient sighs I had received from the nurses at the hospital, my cries were shushed and I was picked up and held, and the vomit was carefully wiped from my chin.

Maybe if I had stayed with those young parents, my life would have been very different. Maybe I would have played football with my friends. Maybe I would have been taught how to ride a bike, and been fussed over if ever I fell off and cried. Maybe I would have gone on family trips out to the beach and the countryside. Maybe I would have gone on holiday to Italy and have been bronzed brown. Maybe I would have grown up into a teenager who went out for a sneaky drink with his friends and played his music too loud. Maybe I would have gotten a girlfriend. Maybe I would have gone to college, university, and become a solicitor or a doctor or a teacher. Maybe, one day, I would have married and had children of my own. I maybe I would have died peacefully of old age.

So many maybes. So many what ifs. But this was the real world, and a world where 'maybe' meant nothing. I could never have stayed with them, I know that.

I was taken to my 'parents' house and they had taken turns in holding me. Their arms around me were awkward and cautious- it was obvious I was their first child. But they were also loving. And I felt happy and warm and safe. If only I could have stayed like that forever.

I didn't like it when they put me down in my cot. I wanted to be picked up and held and loved all over again. I started to cry. They misunderstood. They thought I needed my nappy changing- they were new at this, it was understandable. I was placed on a cold, plastic mat, and tentative fingers carefully peeled back my nappy.

And then they realised I had something that I shouldn't have had. The room was suddenly filled with shocked gasps and worried voices. The voices grew louder, and my mother and father were arguing. I could sense the panic in their voices, and I started to panic too. I cried harder.

But this time, they didn't pick me up.

Instead my wet nappy was closed back over my bottom and I was hastily dressed and lifted shakily from the mat. I was strapped carelessly back into the carrier cot and secured in the back of the car. Did I know what was going on? Yes, yes, I think I did. They were going to leave me, just like my first mother had.

They drove me all the way back to the hospital. I was tired, but I hadn't slept. I had wailed and cried all the way there, begging them in my baby-language not to take me back, to keep me as their own. I was bustled into the baby ward and thrust in the nurse's face. I wasn't the only one crying by now. My new mother was, too.

By now I was so tired that I was beginning to drift away involuntarily. I was passed from person to person and stripped and examined. But one look and everyone could tell that I wasn't this couple's precious baby girl.

I think I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up I was back in that white room, in another tank, surrounded by restless babies. I wanted to be picked up and loved, so I started crying. It was all I could do, being only two weeks old. But the nurse took one look at me, decided I was fine, and tottered away. There were so many others she could tend to. So why would she tend to me?

The next day, when I woke up, the first thing I knew was that I was hungry. I wanted my bottle. I had forgotten all about the family I'd had the previous day. But when the nurse picked me up and jammed the teat of the bottle into my mouth, I had felt strangely empty, even with the milk filling me up.

Somehow, a part of me remembered what it was like to be loved.

Thanks to the little mix-up incident, the hospital staff remembered me. They remembered that I didn't have a family coming to take me off their hands. So it was arranged for me to take up residence in an orphanage that specialized in babies and very young children.

I don't remember the name of the orphanage, and I never did find out. Perhaps I could have, if I had been bothered to do more research into it, but I never had. I think maybe I didn't want to know. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Though I never thought I'd be one to say something like that.

I lived there until I was about three or four years old- I cannot quite recall. In any case I remember nothing of my first few years there. And the few memories I do possess are cloudy, to say the least. What I do remember was that it was run by two people, and man and a woman. They were married. The man- I think we called him 'Uncle' something- was very large and very hairy, like some sort of ape. He tended to make a lasting impression on people, which is probably why I remember him far better than I do the woman, who seemed tiny in comparison to him.

They were kind, Uncle and Auntie, but they didn't care for us. There were so many of us, and of course there were those who were adopted and never seen again, so I suppose they couldn't afford to love us. It would hurt too much.

The other children there were okay- they would motherless, like me- but I never befriended any of them. I heard from Uncle that the best time to get dumped was when you were young and cute. I was young, but I certainly wasn't cute. I was scrawny and skinny and because the orphanage was a little draughty I was cursed with a permanent cold which meant my nose was always dribbling. And I was a picky eater- I refused half the meals I was given. I didn't get any better as I got older, either. If anything, I got worse.

So every time a new couple came visiting the orphanage for whatever reason, be it that one of them was infertile or that they were simply too old to have children of their own, they always left with a cute, 'normal' child. And of course, that child was never me.

All the children that had been in the orphanage when I arrived were either fostered or adopted. I grew up there watching babies come and go, sometimes in a matter of days. The younger you were, the better chance you had of being picked. But nobody wanted the shopping cart baby.

Uncle and Auntie became desperate. They would always choose me as 'Child of the Week'- an article in the local newspaper that advertised children in need of a family. Whenever new would-be parents showed up, they would push me to the front of the crowd of youngsters in an attempt to show me off. But people would always look right _through _me and cast me off in favour of a cuter, happier child. Every time, Auntie would put her arm around me and assure me I would be the next to find a family.

I never was.

--

**I am very happy indeed that this chapter turned out so much longer than the previous ones. I wasn't planning on putting the incident where L was mistaken for another child in here, but I felt that it just fit, and would show how easily he could have been a different person. Just think, if he had stayed with his first 'family', L as we know him would never have existed.**

**Next chapter I am planning on writing about his childhood. He will find a family soon- though perhaps 'family' isn't the best way to put it.**


	4. Mummy

**L had many 'families' in his life...**

--

Her name was Mummy. Not literally, of course, but that was what I called her. Auntie told me that I should call her that, as I was going to live with her from now on.

I remember the first time she visited the orphanage- but of course I didn't call her 'Mummy' then. I think I was five years old, and although I was so young I had figured out long ago that the reason I was there, the reason I was _still _there, was that nobody wanted me. I don't quite remember what I thought of that fact. I don't think I let it bother me too much.

She was a little, neat woman, Mummy. She dodged stiffly around the other children, who were running around caked in mud or food or goodness-knows-what. She didn't seem like the sort of woman who would want children. She seemed to be almost scared of them.

Uncle tried to get her to adopt one of the babies, but she flatly refused. Apparently, she did not like the idea of having to change nappies or clean up sick. Still, he sat her down on one of the big, lumpy armchairs and forced a two-month old baby girl onto her lap. But Mummy was tense as a spring under her slippery skirt and big purple cardigan, and she soon handed the child back to Uncle with shaking, stick-like arms. She politely explained that she was looking for an _older_ child.

I think by then Auntie and Uncle had decided that I was a lost cause, that no-one would ever take me. I was already five by then, and they would be able to pack me off to a different children's home and never see me again. They focused on the sweeter children, the prettier children, the ones who still had a chance of a life.

So, I was left hunched up in the corner behind the ironing board, my face buried in a book. I would read a lot at that orphanage. There wasn't much else to do. The books were meant to be for all of us, but I would pile every one of them up on a baby's wheeled cart and pull them up beside me in my own little corner and read them over and over again- though the words were far too simple, and printed in a huge, bold font. I wouldn't let anyone else read them, either.

Uncle was into reading in a big way, too. He owned all these thick books about war and peace and starving artists, and Auntie had countless romance books that all told the same story with different characters. They forbade us from reading their books because they weren't suitable, but I read them anyway, under my duvet at night with a torch. I thought Uncle had a _much_ better taste in books than Auntie.

Mummy patiently listened as one by one the children introduced themselves and their interests and their dreams, nattering nineteen to the dozen. From my corner I could see Mummy nodding, but her eyes were gazed over and I could tell she wasn't really paying attention. She was all too wary of their stained clothes and food-spattered faces.

After at least two hours, Mummy decided that it was time for her to leave. I barely batted an eyelid. I was too absorbed in 'The H.M.S Surprise' to care, even though I'd read it once before.

I heard Auntie saying she was sorry that she couldn't find a child that was right for her. But then a heard Mummy suddenly say: "Wait."

I heard footsteps padding along the carpet and a shadow fell over me. I looked up to see Mummy's pale, pinched face hovering in front of me, smiling.

"Hello," she said. "What's your name?"

I had just blinked at her stupidly for a moment, astonished. It was the first time an adult had ever asked for my name.

"I am L," I said quietly, hugging my book to my chest. Mummy pulled a confused face, and Auntie hurried over, laughing nervously. She took Mummy by the arm and pulled her away, whispering.

I wasn't stupid. I knew she was talking about me, explaining how I had been found in a shopping cart and kept in the hospital for weeks, waiting for my mother to show up, and that 'L' was just a temporary name the doctors had labelled me as.

I heard Mummy enquiring about my health, asking if I was okay. Auntie nodded. Then they came back over to me and bent down to my level, very slowly as if they were approaching some wild animal and didn't want to scare it away.

"L, sweetheart, this lady would like to have a little chat with you. Is that okay?" Auntie cooed encouragingly. She gently tried to take the book from my hands, but I snatched it away. Auntie looked worriedly up at Mummy, but she didn't seem to be put off.

Instead, she smiled and brushed her long blonde hair behind her ears. "My name's Alma. It's very nice to meet you," she said. Her voice was soft and soothing, and I felt I could trust her.

"...I am L," I said again, at a loss for what else I could say.

"He's a little shy," Auntie whispered, and Mummy looked sympathetic. He glared at them and held my book even tighter, my knuckles turning white. I didn't like them talking about me as if I wasn't there.

Auntie leaned in closer to me. "Would you like to spend some time with this nice lady?" She asked, loudly and slowly, as if she was talking to a particularly stupid person. I seethed- but nodded.

Auntie smiled triumphantly as if she'd made a huge achievement. She took me by the hand and hauled me to my feet enthusiastically, hurrying as if she was worried that either me or Mummy would change our mind.

She sat us down at either side of the kitchen table and gave Mummy a large mug of tea. Perhaps it was to keep her there for longer. Then she chased everyone else out of the kitchen and closed the door behind her.

"So, L," Mummy said, sipping at her tea. "Would you mind telling me how long you've been living here?"

"Since I was a baby," I answered plainly. Mummy raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"And how old are you now?" She asked, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward expectantly.

"Five. I turned five in October," I said. I was horribly aware of how dull and monotonous my voice sounded, but my voice was the sort that flatly refused to portray any emotion, no matter how hard I tried.

"_Five,"_ Mummy repeated, nodding and taking another sip of tea. I sat there, baffled.

"I am L," I murmured, nibbling my thumb nail. "I am..."

Mummy attempted to make conversation, but it was all very one-sided. I only spoke when spoken to. I wasn't used to exercising my voice, so I couldn't say more than a few sentences without becoming breathless.

Mummy's smile began to fade, and I could only watch helplessly. She was nice, and I really did like her. I just didn't know how to show it. I knew there wasn't anything I could say- I knew so many words, but I couldn't put them into practice. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. Then I held out my book to her.

Mummy looked at me for a moment, bewildered. Then she reached out and uncertainly took 'The H.M.S Surprise' from my unresisting hands. I think she was shocked, as she had seen how fiercely I had guarded it from Auntie earlier.

"Are you giving this to me?" She asked.

I nodded, repeating 'I am L' over and over in my mind.

"Thank you," she said, and she beamed. Seeing her face light up like that made me happy to, though my face remained an expressionless mask. In the five short years I had been alive, I had never had much use for my emotions. I couldn't simply start using them now without any difficulty.

Mummy took the book home with her. I worried a little then, because the book hadn't been mine to give away, but it soon reappeared on Uncle's bookshelf, and I knew Mummy must have returned it.

Mummy started visiting regularly. She started to take me out on day trips. We went to the beach, the woods. She took me shopping, and I got my first clothes that weren't some other child's hand-me-downs. She bought me my first ice-cream, though she fussed and fretted over 'E-numbers' and it being 'too sugary'. I didn't care about E-numbers. I hated maths anyway. I had never tasted anything so wonderful in my life.

I learned to smile. I learned to laugh. For the first time in my life, I felt _normal._ Like the children I saw passing by the orphanage with their parents, happy and laughing.

Once Mummy took me out to a big restaurant called McDonald's. I didn't know that there were places that were just for food. She bought me a strawberry milkshake, as a treat. She didn't have anything. She said it would ruin her figure- but I needed fattening up.

It should have been a nice day, but I managed to wreck it. We had been about thirty minutes in McDonald's, and I had chugged down two large milkshakes. They were just so nice; I didn't want to stop drinking them. But then it was time to go, and Mummy asked if I needed the toilet. I _did, _but I didn't say so. For some reason, it would have been embarrassing to admit. So I shook my head and we got into the car.

I thought I could wait until I got back to the orphanage, I truly did. But with every bump in the road I had to cross my legs a little tighter- the milkshakes were taking their toll. Eventually I couldn't hold it in any longer.

Mummy had to take me home early. I cried a bit then. I hated myself for doing such a silly, babyish thing and spoiling everything. I didn't want to go back to the orphanage. I wanted to stay with Mummy.

I was still snuffling when Mummy gingerly led me back to Auntie at the door of the orphanage. She quietly explained that I'd had _a bit of an accident._ This was so horribly embarrassing that I only cried harder.

I had to have a bath and go to bed early while Auntie washed my clothes. I hid under the covers, my head buzzing with thoughts. I was worried. I knew how much Mummy hated bad hygiene and was ever-wary of bacteria. I remembered how quickly she had backed away from the dirty children that I shared a room with. And now I was dirty, too. Maybe she wouldn't like me anymore.

The next weekend, Mummy didn't turn up. I very nearly started crying again, but I didn't. I was too old for tears. Instead I curled up in my corner and hid behind my books. I didn't dare move to the kitchen when it was meal time (though I did remember to make regular bathroom breaks) just in case Mummy arrived and we couldn't hear her knocking from the dining room.

Uncle ruffled my hair and told me not to worry, but I _did_ worry. This was the first time that I'd felt that anyone had wanted me. I couldn't bear it if she stopped wanting me, wanting to spend time with me.

I didn't see her for two weeks. I took to sitting on the windowsill, waiting for her car to pull up on our driveway. I wouldn't eat on those days, not even when Auntie brought me my food on a tray. I would just sit, staring.

And then after three weeks, she came back. I clung to her as soon as I saw her and hid my face in her itchy skirt. She stiffened and patted my head awkwardly, babbling apologies, telling me that she'd been caught up in a big business deal at work and that she had _wanted_ to see me, but just couldn't find the time. I knew Mummy wasn't a very cuddly sort of person, and neither was I, but right then, when I hugged her, I felt I never wanted to let her go.

Eventually she had to unhinge my arms from around her waist herself. She bent down to my level, hands on her knees. Smiling, she said, "I'm not going to be visiting you here anymore, okay, L?"

Had I been a weaker person I think I would have burst into tears. Instead I just stared at her, horrified, as if she'd just slapped me. Seeing my stricken look, Mummy gasped and quickly shook her head..

"Oh, no, dear!" She cried. "It's not like _that."_ She smiled again and stroked my hair. "I don't want to visit you any more... Because I want to _adopt_ you."

--

**If only he could have stayed happy with her forever... This story is rather depressing to write, but I think it is such an interesting concept that it had to be done.**

**The next chapter will be the beginning of L's new life with Alma ('Mummy'). I named her so because it is a Russian name, and they are, currently, in Russia. Also I am using 'Mummy' instead of 'Mommy' as I am English, and also as L is part English I felt it fit him better that to American equivalent.**

**Reviews are inspiring, and I would love to hear your opinion on this chapter or the story in general. Constructive criticism is welcomed.**


	5. A New Start

**I'd like to tell you more about L's childhood, and his life with 'Mummy'...**

--

I had wanted to move in with Alma as soon as possible. I didn't want her to have time to change her mind about adopting me. But of course there was a mountain of paperwork that I didn't know about that she and Auntie and Uncle had to sign, and Mummy had to prepare her house for me moving in. At the time there was a great debate on whether single people should be allowed to adopt- but Auntie and Uncle said I was a 'special case'.

I didn't even look back as I clambered into Mummy's car (having to jump to reach the seat as I was so small and scrawny). I don't think Auntie and Uncle looked back as they practically threw me out the door of the orphanage. They were probably glad to see the back of me. I was just a liability, a drain on their time and effort. I'd been at their home longer than any other child they'd ever cared for. It was understandable that they thought that way.

I remember setting foot in Mummy's house for the first time. It wasn't a very big house, just a small bungalow that smelled of beans on toast and cleaning spray. It didn't have central heating or double-glazed windows, but Mummy had already lit the fire so that it would be warm when we arrived. I wiped my shoes on the doormat and took them off, being careful to arrange them neatly side by side. To my surprise, Mummy kicked off her own sandals carelessly and leant against the wall, circling her ankles one at a time.

"Oh, those shoes are murder!" She sighed, laughing a little. I looked at her, amazed. As soon as she entered her home, all the scared stiffness had disintegrated and she looked calm and relaxed. She smiled at me. "Don't you want to look around?"

I bit my lip and shuffled my feet, suddenly terribly shy. I was so worried about making any mistakes that might have Mummy packing me right back to the orphanage that I didn't dare move. Mummy pointed encouragingly to a door on the left of the hallway, and I forced my feet to uproot from the carpet and I tottered awkwardly over to the door. The doorknob was high on the door, and I had to stand on my toes to reach it and pull the door open.

I think I actually gasped aloud as I entered the room. My heart started pounding hard against my ribcage, and my head felt light. It wasn't just any room, you see. It was _mine._

It wasn't much of a room. It was small and cramped, even though it only contained a bed, a wardrobe and a bookcase. It still emitted the sticky paint smell, and a stepladder was still placed haphazardly in the corner.

But I loved it. The walls had been recently painted bright blue, and navy curtains covered the moulding windows, making the room look fresh and new. And I... I had my own bed. Back at the orphanage with Auntie and Uncle, I'd had to share rooms with at least five other children, so nothing was private. And sometimes, the other children would put pins or woodlice in my bed, trying to make me scream.

And now I had my own room, and my own bed. It was small, and the duvet was navy blue to match the curtains, and patterned with a giant panda, squatting on a thin line of ground and nibbling a bamboo cane. I loved that bed. I remember the first few days I didn't want to get out of it, as if I thought it would disappear if I wasn't there. Mummy had to bring me my meals on a tray, and I would pretend to feed the panda little bite-sized chunks when she left the room. I would talk to it, too, having long, drawn-out conversations in my head. Sometimes I forgot just to think it, and I starting chattering for real. I always stopped when I realized it, though. I didn't want Mummy to think I was weird.

But, more than giving me a room, Mummy gave me a name. She called me Ryuzaki. I got some funny looks when I introduced myself by that name, as it was a Japanese name and I lived in Russia, but Mummy told me that Daddy had been part Japanese- before he died. I never knew him, but she said he was a wonderful man and that I should be proud to be named after him.

I can't help but smile at the circumstances of the birth of my alias. I suppose I should be glad that M... Alma could not speak Japanese herself. Thankfully, neither could anyone else I ever met in Russia. Nobody had any way of telling that I had a surname for a forename. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I could never really think of Ryuzaki as my real name. I had been L for five years. But it was nice to have Ryuzaki, to call it my own. I liked Ryuzaki. Ryuzaki was more normal. In many ways he was like L, but he was capable of emotion. When I was Ryuzaki, I could let myself feel all I liked.

I took Mummy's surname, too. Voikevich. What, you expected it to be something else? Ha. Ha. Ha.

So, for a while I stopped being L and I became Ryuzaki Voikevich. I went to school, for the first time in my life. I learned how to add and subtract and the location of Greenland, but most lessons I found dreadfully boring. Most of the school day was spent reading story books aloud and practicing spelling. I could already read at an adult level, and my spelling ability wasn't too bad either. I didn't need to learn to read and write like the other children, and I didn't see any point in attending lessons that I could already do while standing on my head, so I would stay outside in the playground when it was time for Russian.

I didn't realize I wasn't allowed to skip lessons. I was the school secretary who found me, sitting outside on an old bench in the freezing cold, swinging my skinny legs back and forth. She let out a cry of relief at first, then her anger returned and she stormed over to me, eyes blazing. She seized me by the ear and dragged me, wailing, down the corridor and back to my classroom. She pushed me through the doorway.

"_Here_ he is!" She declared loudly, and every head in the classroom swivelled round to stare at me. I felt my face begin to burn with shame and embarrassment. I bowed my head and tried to back out of the classroom, away from the accusing stares, but the secretary was there, blocking my escape.

My teacher smiled. "Thank you, Mrs Petlyuk, you're a life-saver," she said, completely unfazed. Her eyes turned to me. "You gave us all quite a scare, young man!" She told me. "Are my lessons really so bad that you'd want to run away from them?"

I nodded without thinking, and the whole class erupted in laughter. I tried to back away again, but the secretary pushed me back. I worried that my teacher would scold me, but she was laughing, too.

"Come on, get back to you seat!" She said jokingly, waving her hand towards my desk. I nodded gratefully and immediately made a dash for my seat, just glad to get away from Mrs Petlyuk.

I sat there and sulked all lesson, hunched up and rubbing my throbbing ear. I wouldn't join in with reciting the two times table and reading about Peter rabbit and Mr McGregor's garden. Some of the boys who shared the desk behind me thought it was funny and started flicking pencil lead at my head. It got stuck in my hair, but I didn't try to pull it out, even though the offenders were laughing raucously.

Mummy heard me sobbing under my duvet that night. She didn't hug me, but she stroked my untameable hair and dabbed the tears from my face and told me she was sure everything would turn out okay, and if they didn't I could always go to another school.

I didn't believe that I could ever grow to like my school, but I did. The other students remained indifferent to me, and I was fine with that. I felt no need to become friends with them. But I liked my teacher very much.

I can't remember her name. I've racked my brains time and time again, but part of me just doesn't seem to want to remember. She was very young, and my class was her first- she had just left university the year before she arrived at my school. She had dark hair swept up in a bun, and wore thick glasses, and if you were to judge in appearances you would think she would be terribly old-fashioned. In truth, she was the exact opposite. She was cheerful and bouncy and she gave out lollipops to the class every Friday, just before the weekend.

I think it was her who prompted my unnatural love of all things sweet. All week I would long for Friday to arrive, and when it did I would watch the clock obsessively all day, my eyes following the red hand ticking slowly round and round. The other children would just crunch their lollipops right off the stick, but I would suck the little boiled sweet until it had melted completely, the warm, sweet flavour trickling blissfully down my throat. I would persuade my classmates to give me their lolly sticks, and I would suck the flavour off them. My teacher laughed and called me a 'strange little kid'. I scowled. I didn't see what was so strange about liking something that tasted so good.

Mummy and I still went out on weekends like we used to. Mummy worked weekdays, so I often had to let myself into the house when I got back from school. Every Saturday Mummy would give me one ruble to spend however I saw fit. She would always lecture me first, as if she were bestowing pure gold upon me. She would tell me never to waste it, but I would always go down to the corner shop the same afternoon she gave me it and buy a one-ruble mix-up of sweets.

Looking back, I think that episode of my life was definitely my happiest. I had a family and a home. I was young and I had my whole life ahead of me. I could do anything, I could _be_ anything. Life was _good._

But then, one day, everything changed.

--

**I decided to leave this on a slight cliff-hanger, as I wanted to keep this chapter fairly upbeat. I am becoming rather attached to young L. I like how he's so obviously brilliant in some ways, and yet so childish and naive in others. He's a genius, but he's still a child, only five years old.**

**If you have anything to say about this story, please, feel free to review! I got quite a few for my last chapter, which I was extremely grateful for. I'm beginning to think the number of reviews a story gets depends a lot on what time you submit it- but of course, my time zone is, most likely, different from many of yours, which does pose a small problem!**

**In the next chapter, things will start to go wrong for L...**


	6. England

**Nothing can last forever...**

--

It was about a week before my sixth birthday when the letters started dropping on our doormat. They came in big, brown envelopes and were addressed to Alma Voikevich in bold, black print. I didn't think anything of them at first. All letters were the same to me. I didn't understand about loans and mortgages and 'final warnings'.

I remember coming home from school one day and being surprised to find that the door was already unlocked. I went in to find Mummy sat on the floor in the living room, her legs pointed straight out, as ungainly as a Barbie doll. She was surrounded by pieces of paper, and tears were pouring down her cheeks.

"Mummy?" I said, shuffling over to her. "What's wrong?"

She stared straight ahead, her eyes glazed over, sobbing. I sat down and leant against her, wanting her to hug me close. When she didn't, I wrapped my arms around her neck instead. I don't think she even noticed.

"It's okay, Mummy," I said. Though of course it wasn't okay.

We sat like that for about an hour, silent tears dripping down Mummy's face and onto the top of my head as I held her. Then she sighed, wiped her face and smiled. She kissed my forehead and cupped my face in her cool hands.

"Don't mind me, Ryuzaki, sweetheart. Mummy's just having a silly turn, that's all," she sniffed, smiling weakly.

Poor Mummy. She tried so hard to pretend that everything was normal for me, even though every day she would droop a little more, like a withering flower. She tried especially hard for my sixth birthday. Money had become too tight for any proper presents, but she knitted me a scarf, striped white and blue, so long that I could wrap it round my neck over five times. She baked me a cake, too, though she was in such a daze that she left it to burn in the oven. I ate it anyway, carefully picking away the parts that were too black and crispy.

But then something happened that meant Mummy couldn't pretend any more.

She lost her job.

She had already been taking time off on weekday mornings to walk me to school, and she had been ill a lot recently because of the stress and had to stay home in bed; so her company had decided that she was too unreliable and _fired_ her.

She was in so much debt already. All the little necessities like gas and electricity and groceries, plus my new bedroom, all added up and piled on to the huge amount she owed for the house. She had taken out loans that she couldn't afford to pay back. And she had no way of doing so now, not now she had lost her job. We had no money.

Mummy became tired and despondent. She wouldn't talk to me like she used to. We didn't go out on trips at the weekend, and I didn't get my one ruble pocket money. She barely stepped out of her pyjamas- _Mummy_, who was usually so fussed about neatness and always wearing clean clothes- though she would always pull on some jogging trousers and a jumper over the top to walk me to school every day.

She couldn't be totally systematic. She remembered to wash and iron my school uniform, but she forgot about my growing pile of dirty socks and underwear. I didn't like to mention it in case she started crying. She cried a lot, those days. She would hold it in during the day, putting on a brave face for me and the rest of the world, but at night I could hear the muffled sobs echoing from her room.

I tried to wash my own clothes, with soap and water in the bathroom sink, but I didn't rinse them properly so they dried all stiff and itchy. I wore them anyway, though I got terribly sore.

I ate a lot at school, wolfing down the lumpy mashed potatoes and tough, chewy meat, because Mummy couldn't manage meals any more. She just drank cup after cup of tea and coffee all day. I would savour my Friday lollipop, keeping it in the wrapper until Sunday, then carefully opening it and taking one long, luxurious lick each day. I could make it last until the following Friday, when I would get another.

I just seemed to eat canned food at home. Spaghetti hoops on toast, mostly, and sometimes baked beans. On toast. When we ran out of bread I just had spaghetti hoops. When Mummy just sat and stared into space I ate the hoops cold.

I didn't want to complain. I didn't want her to send me away. I still wanted her, needed her so much. Did she still want me...?

One day I couldn't get her to open the spaghetti tin. I struggled with the tin opener, and ended up cutting my finger. I didn't cry, but Mummy did, once she saw the blood. She kissed my stinging finger and ran it under cold water, crying and crying. She said she was a terrible mother and a useless human being, and that there was no wonder the loan sharks were after her. She said the world would be better off without her, and that I'd be better off without her, too.

And I was so scared that I just clung to her, sucking my thumb and nodding, imagining she wanted me to agree with her.

Mummy woke me up early the next day. She had applied a fresh layer of makeup to her pasty, grey face and was smiling broadly- though I could tell it was forced.

"Wake up, sleepy head," she whispered, stroking my forehead. "We're going on an adventure."

She had already packed the bags. Two small suitcases, one for me and one for her. She had to dress me herself because I was still half asleep and was putting on my clothes inside out and doing the buttons up all wrong. She bundled me into the back of the car along with the suitcases and strapped me in tight. She got in the driver's seat and started the engine.

The bumpy road make my head jerk and woke me up properly. My mind began to process everything that had happened. And then I realised. Mummy was trying so hard to make everything into a game so that I wouldn't be frightened. But I knew we weren't going on an adventure. We weren't going on holiday. We were running away.

I reached over and pulled one of the suitcases towards me. It felt surprisingly light. Being careful not to make too much noise that would attract Mummy's attention, I unzipped the case. Inside were only my pyjamas, hand-made scarf and one change of clothes. Frowning, I checked Mummy's case. It was the same- one pair of pyjamas, and one change of clothes. Not even a toothbrush. I didn't know at the time, but later I realised that Mummy had sold all our clothes to buy the tickets for the ferry. She even pawned her precious wedding ring.

I was so confused as we boarded the ferry. A part of me wondered whether I was dreaming. I asked Mummy what was going on. After a long pause, she told me we were going on holiday to a place called England. She explained that her grandparents had lived in England a long time ago, so she knew how nice it was. She went on and on about this wonderful place, her explanations becoming more and more exaggerated until it was hard to believe England was a real place at all; just a magical kingdom from a story book or fairytale.

Mummy held me for the entire duration of the long journey to England. She was usually so wary of physical contact, but now she was clinging to me as if she would die if she let me go. It scared me. I tried to wriggle away, but her arms only tightened around me. She rocked me gently as if I was a baby. Tears trickled morosely down her cheeks as she sang to me in a soft, shaky whisper.

"Those were the days, my friend; we thought they'd never end. We thought we'd sing dance forever and a day. We'd live the life we chose, we'd fight and never lose; for we were young and sure to have our way..."

I remembered that song all my life. It makes me shudder now as I think how tragically fitting the lyrics were to our lives.

England wasn't anything like Mummy said it was. It was cold and bleak and wet. We collected our car from the lower decks and drove aimlessly for over five hours. We only stopped a few times for toilet breaks, and then for good when the petrol ran out.

Mummy couldn't afford to refill the petrol tank, so we left the car at the side of the road, a rusty, broken-down mess. We walk to the nearest town. It took what seemed like forever, and my legs began to ache and my shoes began to rub at my heels.

By the time we reached the town my feet were bleeding. I didn't mention it, though they were hurting me terribly. Mummy saw that I was exhausted and took me to a cafe with rows of red and white chairs and tables and a big glass counter with dozens of confectionaries behind it.

She gave me a menu, but I couldn't read the language that it was written in. Mummy read it for me, and she said I could choose anything I liked from it. I couldn't decide between the chocolate Swiss roll and the strawberry shortcake, so Mummy bought me both with the very last of her change in her purse.

Mummy didn't have anything.

As I gulped down what was essentially my breakfast, I began to cheer up considerably. The sweetness took over, and I started to wonder if I had just been paranoid and that we really _were_ on holiday.

Mummy taught me a little English as I ate. I learned how to say 'yes', 'no', and 'my name is Ryuzaki'. It was all a bit of fun to me.

Mummy was watching me as I ate. Staring at me intently, her eyes shimmering as if she was about to cry. She had such a look of sorrow on her face, but at that time I barely noted it.

Then she told me that she needed to go to the bathroom, and that she would be right back. She gave me a big hug before she went, breathing in my scent and stroking my hair. I didn't understand why she was making such a big fuss. She was only going to the toilet.

Then she got up and walked away. I carried on eating for a bit, but then I noticed that Mummy had walked right past the door that lead to the bathrooms was leaving the shop. I wavered a little, but decided not to follow her. She was crying. Maybe it was me who had upset her.

I watched her walk very quickly past the cafe window. And then she was gone.

I waited. I waited a long time. I can't remember how long- my mind was too clouded with worry to keep track of time. My strawberry shortcake lay half-eaten in front of me. I had suddenly lost my appetite.

After a while my curiosity got the better of me and I raced out of the shop. I looked around, searching for Mummy among the vast sea of people. She wasn't there.

I began to breathe very quickly, my little shoulders rising and falling dramatically with each breath. I pushed through the jungle of legs that surrounded me.

"Mummy?"

My head grew light. I felt sick.

"Mummy, where are you?"

I started to run down the street, my eyes darting frantically left and right, searching for a purple cardigan, a blonde ponytail. I ran out into the road. Cars honked at me and brakes squealed. I screamed and ran. I was frightened. I was so frightened. I needed Mummy to hold my face and kiss my forehead and tell me everything was going to be all right.

But Mummy wasn't there, and I was all alone.

I suddenly remembered that I had left the suitcases on the floor in the cafe. Maybe Mummy had gone back there, to collect them. I turned on my heel and started running back. But I couldn't see anything except the suffocating crowd, and every street looked the same to me. Nothing was familiar. Everything was so strange.

My lower lip began to tremble, but I willed myself not to cry. There was no use in crying. Instead I shouted Mummy's name over and over, in a desperate hope that she might hear me.

And old couple bent down to my level and grabbed my shoulders. They started talking to me. They were probably just trying to help, but I couldn't understand their alien language and they were scaring me.

The old woman shook me by my shoulders and raised her voice. I flinched, and pulled away. My back hit a brick wall. I was trapped.

"I... I want Mummy," I whimpered- and burst into tears.

Once I'd started crying I couldn't stop. I stood there in the middle of the street, howling. I didn't try to stifle my sobs. I was six years old, and lost in a strange, foreign country filled with unfriendly strangers who spoke a language I didn't know. And I wanted to go home.

A crowd began to circle around me, and alien voices filled my ears. Hands grabbed at me and I tried to run, but my escape was blocked by a wall of bodies. I kept shouting 'I want Mummy', but when I realized that nobody could understand me I switched to 'My name is Ryuzaki' instead. It was the only English I knew.

After a while some people dressed in blue came and took me away. I was in such a state by then that I didn't have the strength to protest. I was vomiting violently again and again, and was barely conscious. I let them bundle my limp body into the back of their van, and they drive me to a big building.

They put me in a big grey room. A man stood at the door, watching me. I thought he was there so he could stop me if I tried to escape. I huddled up in the corner, small and shivering, and pulled my jacket over my head, trying to hide. I wanted to block out the strange, scary world. I buried my face in my scarf and breathed in deeply. It still held Mummy's soapy, powdery scent.

After a while a man came into the room and started talking to me. The first thing I noticed was that I could understand what he was saying to me- but I still wouldn't talk to him. I refused to come out from under my jacket. If anyone tried to touch me I would flinch.

I stayed in that grey room for a long time. Occasionally a person would come in and talk to me while another person would make notes. I was grateful at least some people could speak my language. They asked me lots of confusing questions, but all I ever told them was that I wanted Mummy.

I cried a lot the first few days, weeping out 'my name is Ryuzaki'. But somewhere along the way I stopped crying. I think it was when I started saying 'my name is L' instead.

Once or twice, a group of people would bustle in and the cameras would start flashing at me. I would curl up in a ball and press myself against the cold wall, terrified, desperate to get as far away from them as possible.

Many years later, I managed to get a hold of one of those pictures. It was from a national newspaper called The Telegraph. I was six years old, and already I had made the front page twice in my life. That picture... I looked so small and helpless on it. I wasn't crying, but my eyes were wide and afraid. I was looking in terror at the camera lens. It was obvious that the flashes were scaring me, and yet they didn't stop taking pictures. They _wanted_ me to look scared and sad. It sold papers.

I shredded that picture up into confetti. Then I burned the shreds.

I stayed at the police station for a while, but then the social service got involved, saying that I needed a place to stay and human company. So they sent me to another children's home, where I remained for about two years.

But more on _that_ later.

A few years ago, I decided to track down Alma Voikevich. And I found her. At the most overgrown end of a run-down graveyard, only a few blocks from the cafe where she had left me.

Her grave was worn down by wind and rain, and mottled with lichen and moss. Much too dirty for Mummy. I carefully brushed the moss away to reveal the barely-legible writing underneath.

Alma Voikevich, 1956 – 1985.

And that was it. No 'rest in peace' or 'sorely missed' or 'sleeping with the angels' or any other cheesy quote that you would find on any other grave. Just her name, her birth date... and her death date.

She passed away less than a year after I last saw her, at the age of twenty nine, in a cold, strange country that she came to looking for escape. She didn't have any relatives in England, and her only family in Russia was an aunt, who was too old to get out of bed. I imagined her funeral. Nobody there to see her body being gently lowered into the earth, encased in a bland, wooden coffin.

But there should have been someone there. _I_ should have been there. But I wasn't.

I bought some yellow roses and laid them on her grave. I knew those were her favourite flowers.

I didn't go back to the graveyard after that. The only time I visited her was that one rainy February afternoon. I kept telling myself that I'd visit again, maybe tomorrow or next week or next month... But I never did. It would hurt too much.

Poor Mummy. She messed up her life almost as badly as I did.

--

**I really didn't want to write this chapter, but I felt it had to be done. I give due credit to Ms Wilson, who helped me a great deal in portraying Alma's decline into a slow insanity.**

**This story is cruel. I know that. But so is the world that we live in. Life isn't fair. But nobody ever said that it was.**

**The next chapter will show L's first year or so in England.**


	7. Eastfield House

**L's first impression of England was, understandably, not good...**

--

I was put into Care.

Though no-one really cared for me anymore.

The Children's Home I was sent to was called Eastfield House. It was an all-boys Home. It was the home of society's future menaces. Violent boys, mad boys, boys with anger management problems, boys who were mentally scarred- or just scarred. It was a storage locker where children so vile no-one would ever want them were packed away. And I was there, and I was vile and no-one would ever want me.

Those first few months I was there I drifted in and out of myself, as if in a dream. I would wander around aimlessly, my eyes glazed over, totally out of it. Sometimes when I was eating or watching TV I would suddenly lose my trail of thought and simply stare into space. I often didn't realize that I needed the bathroom until it was too late, and sometimes I even forgot to breathe. That is, until I was brought out of my trance with a gasp as someone bumped into me or snapped their fingers in front of my face.

I couldn't speak a word of English, so I didn't speak at all. I would usually just curl up on the lumpy sofa in front of the TV. I would wrap my scarf round and round one of the cushions, and then I would fall asleep with my arms around it, breathing in the scent of my old home. I pretended it was Mummy I was hugging.

The other boys thought I was mad.

"That 'Zaki kid's a right nutter! Always staring into space and talking to himself in that weird language, whisper, whisper, whisper. I heard his Mam ditched him and did a runner- is that true?" But of course, I couldn't understand them.

I had to go to a new school, too. The other students tiptoed round me in the corridor. They all knew who I was and where I was from, and they acted as if maternal abandonment was catching. I was put in all the special classes with the children who didn't know their left from their right. People would talk to me v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y, as if that would someone magically make me understand them.

The boys at Eastfield were far worse. The younger ones would surround me, and start talking very fast, so fast that all their words strung together in a long slur. I would feebly reply with a 'Yes' or a 'No', and they would all burst out laughing.

Even the adults- the staff at the Home or my teachers- would talk about me. And they would do it right in front of me. I heard enough 'emotionally unstable's and 'too young to understand's to turn me blue in the face. It wasn't their fault. I never spoke to them, so they thought I couldn't understand. But I did.

I was catching on to English fast. Just because I didn't talk didn't mean that I didn't listen. My ears were constantly pricking up, listening fervently for a word of phrase that I recognised. At school, we had to sing hymns in assembly, and though I couldn't sing, I would drone along in a whisper, head bowed so people couldn't see, and I got used to the sound of the language. I ploughed my way through the entire school library. And somewhere along the way, the unintelligible squiggles that were splashed haphazardly across the pages formed into words.

I was proud of myself. I didn't utter a word until I was certain I could speak English fluently, so that I could surprise everyone. But I was teased when I tried to talk to the other children. I didn't understand about accents. I just knew I talked differently from the rest. My thick Russian accent made them whoop with laughter, so I fell into silence once again. None of the adults ever found out that I could speak perfect English, and the children never felt the need to tell them.

My voice wasn't the only thing the other boys teased me about. I was an especially neat child because of the way Mummy had brought me up, and I couldn't stand any form of dirt or bacteria. Eastfield House was an old, converted Tudor manor, and the walls were mottled with moss and the windows blacked out with mould and the floor coated with a carpet of dust.

I was worried that I would catch something. Even when we were eating, I would pick up my knife and fork very delicately, holding onto the very end with the tips of my fingers. I wouldn't sleep in the beds because they smelled funny and the sheets had sick stains on them. I wouldn't sleep on the floor either, because I didn't want spiders to crawl over me during the night. So I didn't sleep at all. I crept downstairs after lights out and curled up on a stool in the kitchen, goose bumps forming on my skinny arms as I gripped the seat, my eyes wide and searching. I always tiptoed back to my room just before everyone woke up, so nobody suspected a thing.

Though Eastfield house was large, it only had two bathrooms. This made bath times rather tricky, and the staff decided that it would be easier if we bathed two at a time. I didn't want to share a bath with any of the scruffy, smelly children who lived at the house. I would wind myself round and round the leg of the kitchen table and refuse to let go when the staff came to fetch me. Eventually they had to agree to let me bathe alone, though I still couldn't stand the scummy bath, stained with the dirt of previous washes. I remembered the pristine white bathroom back at Mummy's bungalow.

The other boys called me a snob and a freak, and didn't I think they were good enough for me? They told me to go back to where I came from. I didn't bother pointing out that I _couldn't._

It rained a lot in England, but I remember one day when it was especially wet, the ground waterlogged and gulping for air as I walked. Some of the older Eastfield boys caught me on my way home from school. They teased me and pushed me around a bit. I jumped away. I didn't want their dirty hands touching me, and I told them as much.

I remember their faces darkening. Then suddenly I was seized, my feet lifted off the ground. They tipped me upside down and dunked my head in a muddy puddle. Then they dropped me, and ran off, shouting "Who's dirty now, eh?" and I just laid there, the brown water dripping from my hair and down my face. I didn't cry.

I told the staff nurse that I'd just fallen over on my way back. She didn't look as if she believed me one-hundred percent, but she didn't push the matter. I knew there was no point in me telling. Nobody would care.

I still refused to speak English at school, so I stayed in all the special classes, even though the work was insultingly simple. It was easier to let everyone think I was stupid. That way, they left me alone.

They didn't leave me alone at the Home, though. The older boys thought it was fun to pick on me. Perhaps it was because I looked an easy target, so small and different. I was their little toy. When the staff were out of sight, they would pass me around like a packet of crisps, everyone taking their share. They would prod me and insult me and pull my hair or ears or nose. I would squirm and struggle and try to hit them, but strong hands would clamp around my skinny wrists and I would be pushed to the floor.

Once, when I was using the bathroom, the lock on the door broke and I couldn't get out. I was stuck, banging on the door for hours, willing someone to come and set me free. I could hear footsteps passing by on the landing outside. But not one person stopped to let me out.

I had to climb out of the window and scramble down the drainpipe. The bathroom was on the second floor, and the drain was old and chipping away from the wall, and my little hands were shaking as I slowly lowered myself down. I was so scared that I wet my pants.

And when I finally made it to the bottom, a crowd had gathered to laugh at the stains on my shorts.

--

**I'd better start being nice to L soon. Keeping up this tragic tone is really rather depressing. Though this **_**is**_** meant to be something of a tragedy, so I'd better learn to deal with it- I have about nineteen more years to write!**

**As usual, I would love to hear your opinions on this chapter. Constructive criticism is also very useful- but if you have no time for long, drawn-out reviews, then any opinion you may have would be nice! I like to hear my readers' views on my work so I can make it even more enjoyable for them to read.**

**Next chapter I will probably introduce Watari. Hopefully, the next chapter will be a lot longer than this one.**


	8. Watari

**Watari changed L's life, for better or for worse...**

--

I was eight by the time Quillish Wammy walked into my life, and veering seriously off the rails. An older boy called Mark had seen my dramatic escape from the second floor bathroom, and took an immediate shine to me. He liked to take me out burgling with his friends. It was my job to clamber up the drainpipe or trellis and squeeze through an upper-floor window that had been left ajar. Then I would creep down the stairs and unlock the front door so the others could get in.

Together we formed an elite band of thieves. I still remember shuffling down those dark hallways, listening to the snores that emitted from behind the closed doors, waiting for a light to turn on and the voices to start yelling. I was terribly frightened at first. When I'd lived with Mummy, she had been very strict about the law and what was right and wrong. Once, when I ate a stray grape at the supermarket, she caught me chewing and told me off so sorrowfully that I didn't dare go to sleep at night for fear that I'd be sucked straight down to Hell in my sleep.

But that was when I was Ryuzaki. I was L now, and L wasn't scared of anything. L was strong. He could handle what _I_ couldn't. L was my sanctuary, and when I felt guilty or sad or angry, I could turn into him and not feel anything at all.

And so, by the time I was eight years old, I had forgotten all about how I used to be.

My first impression of Wammy- or Watari, as I called him- was that he had a cool, refined air about him. The atmosphere around him seemed at least five degrees colder than the rest of the area. He was quite old, but he still stood tall, his posture perfect. He had a kind face, and he encouraged respect rather than demanded it. He was the kind of person that society would admire. He looked very out of place, stood there in the vandalised hallway of Eastfield House and talking to one of the messy, tattooed staff workers.

It was such a strange sight that I could help staring in awe. I listened- it appeared Watari was searching for an adoptive child. Not just any child- a 'special' child. I wondered why he had come here to look for one. The staff worker saw me blinking at them and rolled her eyes.

"Eavesdropping, are we? Away, y' nosey parker! Go on, get upstairs."

As I sloped up the staircase I heard her telling Watari, "Oh, that's just Ryuzaki. He's a funny kid. Came here from Russia, b'fore his mam dumped him. He's been here two years, but he still can't speak a word of English, poor thing."

I went into my dorm room and settled on my bed. I had long since learned to endure the general filthiness of the Home, but I still couldn't shake my habit of holding everything delicately, like it was diseased. I took out the chess set out from under the bed and began to set up the pieces. The set was small and pieces were plastic and they and the board were magnetic so they stuck together- but they did the job just as well as a professional set.

I had nobody to play with, so I played with myself. Sometimes, when I was bored, I played against L, switching between the two of us. I would play as black, and L would be white, because L always made the first move. He always made the last move, too.

I had been playing for about half an hour in the dark, empty dorm, when I heard the door click open and saw the light from the landing spill over the floor. Watari stood in the doorway, in all his cold, sophisticated glory.

I hunched up even more and didn't say a word, focusing entirely on my chess game. I was playing as the white pieces.

I felt the bed dip as Watari sat on the end. He looked directly at me. "Hello," he said. "You may address me as Watari. Shelley tells me your name is Ryuzaki. Is that correct?" I didn't even look at him, though I listened. I heard him let out a slightly amused sigh. "I know you can understand me," he said. "You _can_ speak English, can't you?"

I raised my eyes for the first time. Seeing the determination in his face, I decided it would do me little good to lie. "How did you know?" I asked quietly.

Watari smiled. "When Shelley talked to you, you understood her. She told you to go upstairs and you did." He paused. "You also speak Russian." It was a statement, not a question, but I nodded anyway.

"And French. A little French," I whispered. I took a long, gulping breath. In the two years I'd spent in England, I couldn't have spoken more than twenty sentences, and I'd now spoken three in less than a minute. It was making me short of breath.

Watari nodded. He didn't seem the least bit surprised. "Why didn't you tell anyone you could speak English, Ryuzaki?" He asked. He picked up a black pawn and examined it critically. I reached over and took it from him, placing it back on the board with a frown on my face.

"L," I corrected him, sliding my white bishop across the board. "I am L."

"I see," Watari said. He didn't seem at all phased by my obvious lack of normality. He was the first. He picked up the black castle and placed it a few squares away on the board. "Check," he said.

"Do you-" Deep breath "-like chess?"

Watari nodded. "I do, though I can't say I've had much time for it as of late. It is a shame." I nodded, my eyes turning back to the board. I moved my bishop again.

"Checkmate."

Watari raised the furry grey caterpillars that hung over his eyes and nodded, humming to himself. He shifted where he sat, getting himself more comfortable. Sliding the chess board between us, he began to set the pieces back up in their starting positions.

"Care for a rematch?"

We stayed there in that damp-smelling dormitory for over three hours, playing game after game of chess. The end result: Watari won five games. I won three.

"You beat me," I said plainly.

"Yes, I did," Watari agreed. "But, you have a surprising grasp of the game for such a young child. Tell me, L, what else can you do?"

I shrugged, busying myself in putting the chess set away. I curled and uncurled my toes awkwardly. I had no need for L now that the game was over, because I didn't need his intelligence; and I didn't need his strength either, because nobody was bullying me. So I turned back into me. Watari's understanding demeanour had coaxed me out of my mask. And, I found, having a stranger enquire into my personal life was worrying, if not a little embarrassing.

"Sorry. I can't do much; I-" gasp "-have to attend the-" wheeze "-special classes at-" cough "-my school." I slumped in a heap, pressing my hands to my heaving chest and feeling my heart pounding a mile a minute. All this talking was making me dizzy.

"Oh, are you now? Well, perhaps you oughtn't be," Watari mused. "I'll tell you what, L, if I were to bring in a few games and tests, would you mind trying them out for me?"

I blinked emotionlessly. I was L again. Though the times when I wasn't him were few and far between. I nodded in consent, and Watari smiled.

The next day Watari came back. He brought lots of papers with him, and I spent all day sat at the kitchen table poring over them, swinging my skinny white legs under the table. Most of the tests weren't very hard at all. Most of them were lateral thinking puzzles and complicated 3-D shapes pictured at different angles, but there were some maths questions too, which I floundered helplessly with (the furthest we had gotten at school was the two times table). There was a history paper that focused on the history of France, and it was written in French, too. I wasn't overly confident with French, but I painstakingly translated every sentence, the paper to one side of me and a huge French dictionary on the other.

Watari took my completed papers home with him, and I thought that would be the end of it. But the next day he came back. He marched right up to my dormitory, where he had previously found me. I looked up to acknowledge his presence- but he took me by the hand without a word and practically dragged me downstairs. He announced quite calmly that he was adopting me. I was too surprised even to ask why.

Within the hour I was in Watari's car a heading off to my new home. I didn't understand. Usually, there were countless procedures that one had to go through in order to adopt a child. I assume Watari called in a few favours.

I didn't get a say in the matter of my adoption, though I can't say that I would have objected to it. I was so desperate to get out of Eastfield that I would have gladly have gone home with almost anyone.

Watari was a kind guardian. He never displayed any real affection for me, not like Mummy, but I knew that he cared very much for me. I knew from the beginning that I would never be a son to him. I was his student. But I was his favourite student, the student who got special treatment, the one he liked the best.

No, that's not right. It was _L_ he liked best. And who wouldn't? L was a genius, but I- I was no genius. I knew that. But I had to be, for Watari. So, when I became his student, I decided that I would become L. Permanently.

And I was perfectly fine with that. L was stronger than I ever could be.

Because Watari lived far away from Essex, I had to move schools. By this time I had mastered the English accent to perfection, and because there was no Home staff to tell, the students of Jacob's Mill remained unaware of my past and left me blissfully alone.

But school was really just a minor distraction during the day. The majority of my learning was done at home with Watari. I sped through languages and literature at an adult level, and after a while, I grew to enjoy mathematics as well. I liked percentages the most. I made a habit of working out the percentage chances of simple, everyday things, like who the teacher was going to ask to take the register back to the office. It was as if Watari had strapped a pair of strong glasses on my nose and I was seeing clearly for the first time. I wasn't stupid, I realized. I was _intelligent._

Though I could sail with ease through the academic work at my school, my teachers were concerned that I had missed out on the physical side of education when I'd lived in Russia. All my classmates had already learned to swim on organised school trips to the local pool, but I'd never so much as set foot in a body of water bigger than a bath. Because my year group no longer went to swimming lessons, I had to go with the younger children, the five and six-year-olds.

I hated having to learn to swim alongside children so much younger than me. It was made even worse by the fact that they were _better_ at it than me. After the first lesson, I refused to get in the pool again. I was too proud to let them teach me. Instead, I would hunch up on the bench at the side of the pool.

I was freezing in just my swimming trunks. Goose bumps formed on my pasty skin. I had to hunch over and hug my knees to my chest to keep warm. And, I found, it wasn't so bad, being sat like that. It made it easier to focus on my thoughts, especially as my mind wasn't set on how cold I was. I started sitting that way at home, just to see if it worked there, too. Maybe it was just my belief that it would work that made my head obey, but it seemed to be effective. Watari didn't question my adoption of this odd technique. I think when he took me in he resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to accept my eccentricities, no matter what.

I liked my new life. It was safe and comfortable, and Watari provided for all my needs accordingly. I was satisfied. Not particularly _happy,_ but satisfied.

And that was good enough for me.

--

**As you can see, I have started to separate L from the man who became known as L here. He **_**is**_** as human as you or I- it just takes a lot of digging to get to that fact.**

**As for Watari, well, the creators stated that he was a man who 'raised geniuses for fun,' which, in all honesty, does sound rather terrible- like he's using L as a game to pass the time. However, I do think he cares for L an awful lot, and I want to get that across.**

**Next chapter I will be moving into L's late childhood and early teens- that's about age eleven, twelve and thirteen. I'm really looking forward to depicting a teenage L!**

**Please review, and thank you.**


	9. St Benedict's

**L was just a normal teenager. Sort of...**

--

The next two or three years swept by like sweet days. _Sweet_ being to objective word- after a two year break from my precious sugar, I definitely had to make up for the lost time. Watari didn't fuss over E-numbers or the state of my teeth, like Mummy did. He let me eat as much as I wanted. I never seemed to gain any weight anyway, so what difference did it make?

Even the children at my school seemed to be getting used to me. The room no longer fell silent when I walked in, people didn't whisper when I sat with my feet on the chair or complain when I ate sweets in class (though the teachers often nagged me). I usually sat at a desk of my own, while all the little friendship groups shared one, but one day a dark-haired girl from my class gingerly took one of the spare seats at my desk. It was the seat that was placed the furthest away from me, but that didn't matter. I stared at her in awe.

Maybe I stared a little too long or hard, because after a while the girl began to fidget, and soon she had darted back to her previous seat, beside her friends. I felt a little disappointed- but also pleased. Nobody had ever wanted to sit with me before.

But then I turned eleven, and it was time for me to leave Jacob's Mill and move on to secondary school. All the other pupils in my year went to the public school just around the corner, but Watari enrolled me in a private school on the other side of town. St. Benedict's.

Because Watari was an inventor, and because he spent most of his afternoons teaching me, he was often up and in his lab by six in the morning. This meant that I had to walk to school alone, even though it took over an hour, and meant that I had to leave the house at only seven in the morning in order to reach St Benedict's for ten to nine.

I didn't mind. I liked walking alone, with my thoughts for company. The first fifteen minutes were always dull, walking through the identical suburbs until I reached the main road. But then, after I'd managed to dodge the traffic, and made it across to the footpath, things got a lot more interesting.

The path lead through a patch of forest. I usually wasn't one for nature, but even I had to admit that it held a certain beauty that couldn't be found in language or literature. The way the morning sun trickled through the trees on sunny days, and the way the rain pattered on blanket of leaves on rainy days were so relaxing. There, I could think and think all I liked. And I was truly content.

Ten minutes from the school the forest ended, and faded out onto a railway track. After crossing it, I was only a few blocks from St Benedict's.

I wasn't fond of my new school. It was enormous and held the sickening scent of half-cooked school dinners. All the other students in my year already had friends from their primary schools. I didn't know anyone.

I got my face slapped, that first day. At Jacob's Mill we didn't have separate changing rooms for P.E. We just had one room for both the boys and girls to share. At St. Benedict's, we were expected to change separately. I was using the bathroom at the beginning of the lesson, so I didn't know which changing room was mine- they didn't have the 'male' and 'female' signs on the doors.

So I took a chance. And you can guess how that turned out. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I couldn't really blame them for hating me after that. Gossip spread throughout the school like the plague, and I never got a second change at a first impression. It was made fairly obvious that first week what everyone thought of me. I didn't bother trying to explain. I knew it wouldn't make any difference. They had made up their minds, and it didn't take a genius to work out that they weren't going to change them.

It didn't matter that I spoke in the same way as them. I didn't need a Russian accent for them to despise me. At least, they seemed to despise me. Perhaps they just wanted someone to provide a vent for their anger and frustration- and I just happened to be the easiest target. It was acceptable to bully a person like me. I was different- though they didn't use that word. I was unnatural, strange, weird, a freak.

It was okay. Really. I couldn't say that I didn't expect it. I still sat with my knees hunched up to my chest and ate in lessons, while the teachers weren't looking. My skin was almost frighteningly white, especially in contrast to my wild black hair, and dark, heavy circles had formed under my eyes thanks to the habit I had picked up at Eastfield of staying awake for as long as I could, fighting against my lolling head and drooping eyes.

I didn't just look different. The way I behaved was 'not normal', either. I didn't know how to talk to people. I never had. I only ever spoke when I was spoken to, and even then I would reply in monosyllables, staring straight ahead, not looking at the person. It wasn't that I was being deliberately rude. I was just being L, and L _was_ unsociable. But then, so was I. I couldn't trust anyone. Not any more.

It irked the other students that I always got top marks in everything, despite the obvious lack of attention I paid to the lessons. They would glare at me when the results were read out. It didn't deter me at all, though. If anything, I tried even harder in classes.

I was too proud to change myself for the likes of them. I became even more unresponsive and aloof. Just out of spite, really. To prove that they couldn't get to me.

But that was the thing. They _could_ get to me. Their words weren't great daggers stabbing through me, just little pinpricks. But every morning when I woke up, I knew that they would be jabbing at me again. And little by little, the pinpricks began to break through my skin, and eventually I was bleeding.

It got worse as we got older. Especially as we entered our teenage years, and our bodies began to change. Or rather, _their_ bodies began to change. I stayed as little and skinny as ever. All the boys towered over me, and most of the girls. It was Hell in the showers after P.E. The teachers made all us boys strip down and use the row of showers all at the same time. The other boys would mess around and compare themselves to each other. I would shrink down noticeably and edge away, feeling terribly weak and vulnerable without my clothes. They would mock me for being so white and hairless. I would try to ignore them, but then someone would turn my shower onto 'cold' and I would yelp in my childish, unbroken voice.

The girls could be even worse. They didn't say anything to my face, but that just made things more awkward, because I didn't know for sure if they were really doing anything at all. Maybe I was just being paranoid. That's what they would say.

They would huddle together in a big group at break time, close, but not too close, to the bench that I always sat at, my eyes focused on a book, but not really _reading_ it. They would giggle and whisper in the way teenage girls do, and occasionally they would all look my way for a little too long, then turn back and burst into peals of shrieking laughter. I bit the insides of my mouth raw trying to suppress the urge to shout something back at them.

My classmates started to take interest in things like their appearances and those of the opposite gender for the first time. The girls all slapped makeup on their faces and straightened their hair. They strutted around the school like catwalk models, and fluttered their spidery eyelashes and pouted their heart-shaped lips and poked out their developing breasts shamelessly, each one as identical as the last. The boys caked their hair in gel and experimented in various different styles, and wore their school ties loose and trousers baggy, and wore white trainers that were strictly forbidden, as a rule. I liked to keep my uniform as it was meant to be. I didn't like the tears in the knees or the wonky ties. Sometimes I did long for trainers, though- the customary school shoes were brown and stiff and uncomfortable, and I swore that as soon as I got out of St Benedict's, I would never wear shoes again. I couldn't chat about girls like the other boys- I found it simply impossible to find anything attractive about that group of gaggling fools.

The other students took amusement in how, despite my obvious intelligence, I remained a little boy in lots of ways. They would whisper loudly in the corridor, making sure I could hear, but pretending that they didn't mean me to, so that if I stood up to them they could accuse me of eavesdropping. I never did stand up to them, though. I knew they wanted a reaction out of me, and they weren't going to get it.

'Ugly' was the one word I constantly had ringing in my ears. It's funny; it seems like such a petty, childish insult. And yet it got to me. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it did. I found myself looking at the other boys and comparing myself to them and their bronzed skin and toned bodies and tousled hair. At home, I locked myself in the bathroom and stripped down to my underwear and looked at myself properly in the mirror.

I was small and skinny and white. My ribs and hips stuck out unattractively, making my stomach appear to cave in. My veins showed blue through my papery skin. My hair stuck out in all the wrong places. My eyes were dark and tired and too big in my pointed face. My nose was a little crooked, and my chin jutted out a little too far. They were right. I _was_ ugly.

I took off my underwear and checked myself all over, but I was still as undeveloped as ever. I was a late-developer, I'd read about it in books. It was normal. But I still hated looking that way. I was thirteen years old- and I still looked about eight.

My eyes slowly but surely began to make close friends with the floor at school. I deliberately let my hair grow longer to cover a lot of my face. Just because I wanted a change, I told myself, but I knew that wasn't really the reason.

One day, the deputy headmistress caught some of the boys calling me a 'freak', and scolded them harshly, saying that sort of behaviour was unacceptable, and that she didn't want to hear anyone saying it ever again. So they made up their own name for me. A name that didn't mean anything, so that they couldn't get told off for calling me it.

Lawliet.

It caught on and soon almost the whole school was calling me it. People I didn't know stopped me in the corridor with a 'Hey, Lawliet'. The teachers thought it was just a nickname, so they didn't stop people calling me it. It didn't mean anything, after all.

But that was the thing. It _didn't _mean anything. It meant nothing. It meant I was worthless, a waste of space, a freak of nature not fit to stand on the same planet as them. I was Lawliet. And I was nothing, nothing, nothing.

I didn't tell Watari anything about what happened to me at school. I knew he was a busy man, and he was spending a lot on my education. I didn't want to trouble him. And telling would effectively be admitting that I needed help. I didn't need help. I was fine. Those immature fools couldn't get to me. No way. I would _not_ lose to them.

Somewhere along the way, the insults turned into physical attacks. It wasn't so awful at first- sometimes a foot would stick out and I would trip, or a body would ram into me in the dinner queue, but that was it. Then one day someone punched me. It was a girl, so it was disregarded, even though she made my nose bleed and my lip swell up. If ever a girl hit a boy, it would be laughed off, as a matter of tradition. Boys weren't allowed to admit when girls hurt them.

Nobody had ever hit me before- not like that. I had just stood there, my head turned by the force of her punch. I didn't move to catch the blood or rub my stinging lip. I just stood there, blood dripping down my face down my uniform and onto the floor. Some people laughed, though some gasped too. A friend of the girl asked, with a smile on her face, if I was okay.

"Yes," I said plainly. I didn't go to the toilets to wash the blood away. I ignored it all day, even though it dried and crusted across my upper lip. I took special care in hiding it from Watari when I got home. I didn't want him getting involved. I wasn't going to give them any satisfaction.

I could have survived, at St Benedict's. I was strong- _L_ was strong. He could get me through anything. I'd read stories about children who committed suicide because they were bullied at school. In my opinion, they just weren't strong enough. I would never have done anything so stupid. I wouldn't. I _wouldn't._

One day a few of the boys (and one girl) from my year cornered me in the hallway. I never fought back, because that would be giving them a reaction, so it didn't take them long to get me pinned against the wall with my arms twisted behind my back. I just stood there, waited for the pain to come, but to my surprise, it didn't. Instead I heard a voice.

"Boys! Stop fighting this instant!"

The deputy headmistress, obviously. She kept all five of us back after school. I thought she was just going to give us a detention, but she asked to see me alone in her office. She asked me about the bruises on my arms and face- the ones I had tried so desperately to hide. I shrugged and muttered something about sports injuries- though I didn't do any sports outside of school hours. She didn't believe me. She asked if those boys had given me any trouble before. I shook my head. She told me that I mustn't be afraid to speak up about it.

I felt insulted. I wasn't afraid of them. _I wasn't afraid of them._

It became obvious that I wasn't going to say anything helpful. She sent me back out into the corridor and called the three boys and one girl- I think her name was Caitlyn- into her office. I don't know what she said to them, but when they came back out, storms had taken over their faces. A black aura seemed to emit from them- one of the boys was actually crying.

The tallest boy shot me such a look that I almost flinched.

"You're dead, Lawliet," he hissed.

And I ran.

I knew it was a stupid thing to do- they couldn't have done anything to me there, not with the deputy headmistress only metres away in her office. But my feet moved by themselves, and I was running for my life. I knew that if they caught me, they really would kill me.

I meant to stay in the school. I wanted to find somewhere where there would be people, so they couldn't hurt me. But before I knew it I had hurtled down the staircase and out of the school gates, my stiff brown shoes pounding the pavement.

I was little, and my legs were shorter than theirs. But I was fast. I shot like an arrow down the street. I could see the fence that barred off the railway tracks. I leapt over it without even touching it. I landed poorly, and scraped all the skin off my knees on the gravel, but I didn't stop. I got straight back up and started running again, my blood roaring in my ears, my heart hammering so hard it threatened to break out of my ribcage.

I stumbled over the railway lines and into the woods. I suppose I was heading for my house, which seems ridiculous now, as it was over an hour's walk away. I couldn't possibly have run all the way there. But my mind was so clouded with panic that I didn't care.

I could still hear shouting behind me. I risked a glance back, and my heart leapt into my throat when I saw how much distance Caitlyn and the boys had gained on me. They were held up by the fence, though, having to stop and climb over it. That would buy me some time.

I increased my pace, though by now my throat was burning and my lungs felt as if they were about to burst. Branches and twigs tore at my skin and clothes, and my ankles kept twisting on the uneven ground, but I didn't stop running. I closed my eyes and willed myself onwards, though my body had already reached its limit.

My legs were screaming at me in pain, and as I began to slow, I knew I wasn't going to make it. They were going to catch me. I looked back- and then I tripped. I didn't move my hands out to break my fall, so my chin hit the ground first and caused me to bite my tongue. A horrible, metallic taste filled my mouth.

The first thing I saw when I looked up was the sole of a heavy Doc Martin's trainer, stamping down mercilessly on my face. Blood exploded form my nose and mouth and spattered across my face. I rolled onto my side and curled up into a ball, covering my head with my hands for protection as an army of shoes came down on me. One drove straight into my stomach and had me instantly breathless and retching helplessly into the mud, but I couldn't move my hands to rub the pain away because someone was jumping on me and I had to protect my head.

Then I felt ice exploding through the back of my head, and my body went limp. I couldn't even protect myself any more. My vision blurred and a suffocating mist filled my mind. Even though my conscious was slipping, I knew that I'd been kicked in the head.

I was vaguely aware of my wrists being seized, and then I was being dragged across the ground, the sharp stones and twigs ripping my skin through my clothes. I didn't even have the strength to struggle. My head flopped down onto my chest, and my body was weak.

Blinding light filled my eyes, and I knew they had dragged me back out of the woods. I felt the gravelled ground beneath me, and knew, mildly, that we were at the train tracks. I was flung down and my head struck the ground again- though I was coming to my senses by now. I felt a tightness around my right wrist and ankle, and I didn't realize until it was too late. They had tied me to the tracks.

I looked up at them through heavy-lidded eyes, still only half-conscious. Though I was coming to fast. And I was panicking.

The tallest boy waved his penknife mockingly in front of my face. Then he placed it carefully down on the ground, making sure it was _just _out of my reach. Then I heard running, and I was left alone, 'Lawliet' ringing in my ears.

I tugged experimentally at my bonds. The rope was secure. There was no way I'd be able to untie it. My eyes wandered to the open penknife that lay near me. If I could reach it, then I could cut myself free. But I knew I wouldn't be able to reach it.

I looked around, blinking to clear my vision. I didn't doubt for a second that Caitlyn and the boys were just hiding close by in the woods, waiting for me to break down. I wasn't going to break down. They would have to untie me sooner or later.

I remembered that a train passed by at about half past four. What time was it now? We had been kept back for at least half an hour after school had ended, so it was definitely past four o'clock. What if Caitlyn and the boys didn't know that a train was due? What if they really had gone, and were planning on coming back to untie me in an hour or so? I didn't have an hour or so. By then it would be too late.

I held my breath and listened hard for a whisper or a rustle of the trees or _anything _that would suggest that I was not alone. There was none. My eyes began to dart back and forth more frantically as I willed someone to be there. They couldn't have left me. They _couldn't_ have.

Could they...?

I wanted to cry out, but I didn't, just in case they were there, hiding, laughing at me. They wanted me to call for help. I wouldn't give them what they wanted.

My heart was pounding and my stomach was twisting itself in knots. I was going to be sick. What was the time? It couldn't be before quarter past four. That left me only ten, fifteen minutes to get free.

I pulled again at the ropes that bound my wrist and ankle. They didn't budge. I decided to take a risk.

"Hello?" I called out loudly. No answer.

"I would like to be untied now, please," my voice grew louder and higher. I cursed myself for sounding so scared. But I _was_ scared. Scared that they had left me all alone to die. "Hello?"

There was no reply. There was no-one there. And if there was no-one there, it didn't matter what I did, right? It was okay to be afraid. As long as nobody _knew_ I was afraid. After a slight pause, I shuffled out and reached for the penknife. I couldn't reach it. I dug my heels into the ground and strained so hard against my bonds that the rope began to bite into my skin.

I couldn't breathe. I was panicking. Help me, somebody, help me.

L was slipping from my grasp. His strength and his calmness were quickly ebbing away, and I was left alone, a frightened little boy. What was the time?_ What was the time?_

I heard, from far up the railway line, the warning bell ringing. I knew what that meant. It meant that in five minutes, a huge train would come barrelling down the tracks, destroying everything in its path. Including me. I'd read articles about people who had been hit by trains. Often the bodies were horribly mutilated, limbs torn off, heads cracked in half. Sometimes there wasn't any body left.

I started screaming, my voice bubbling through the blood that filled my mouth. "Somebody help me!"

I didn't care whether Caitlyn or the boys heard. Tears streamed down my bloodied cheeks. "Help me! Please, somebody help me!" I was scared. I didn't want to die.

_I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die._

I started to kick furiously against the ground, my hands shaking violently as I reached for the penknife. I had to reach it. I had to get free. I didn't want to die.

I could feel the tracks begin to tremble underneath me. The train was coming. And I was stuck. How long did I have? Two minutes, at the most.

"_Somebody help me!"_

I was in hysterics by now, shrieking and sobbing- even though I hadn't cried in seven years. And, to my horror, I wet my pants. I honestly thought I was going to die. My wrist and ankle were bleeding as I tore frantically at the rope with my bitten nails. I tried for the knife again, though I knew it was useless. How long did I have? One minute. Sixty seconds to live. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven...

Then I heard screaming that wasn't coming from my mouth. I jerked my head up and saw, through my tears, Caitlyn and another one of the boys dashing towards me. One of them managed to kick the blade in my direction. They didn't stop to see if I picked it up. They just turned and ran away.

I snatched the penknife up and tried to cut through the rope, but the knife was blunt and my hands were shaking so much I ended up cutting myself instead of the rope and I was sweating all over so it kept slipping from my grasp.

And, oh God, I could see the train.

I wrenched my wrist free. I way halfway there. I was right-handed, so now that my right hand was free I could handle the penknife more easily. I started sawing at the rope that held my ankle down. I pushed my body as far from the tracks as I could, just in case I couldn't get free in time. Maybe I would only lose my leg and not my life. But the more likely outcome would be that I would get sucked under the train.

I could hear the huge engine roaring in my ears, along with the constant pounding of my frantic heart. The tracks were shaking so much that I almost dropped the knife. I didn't look up, but I knew the train was close, so close. But that was okay. _I _was okay. L was back. L would save me.

And with one final hack of the blade, I cut through the rope and pushed myself away from the tracks. The train knocked my shoe off as it passed.

I limped all the way home, my head spinning. I had to stop several times, to cradle my throbbing head or aching stomach, or to rest my swollen foot, or to throw up behind a tree. I didn't know how I was going to explain everything to Watari.

I practically fell into my house. I heard Watari's voice calling out to me, but it sounded so far away. My head was heavy. The world was darkening. And then my eyes rolled back in my head and my legs crumpled beneath my weight, and the floor rushed up to meet me.

--

**This was honestly a really horrible chapter to write. I'm sure a lot of you have experienced bullying at school or other places (hopefully not as badly as this!), as have I, and you will probably know how emotionally crippling it can be.**

**I hoped to get across that L, despite all his genius, is very much a normal teenager in this chapter, with insecurities and body worries like many people. I know that L is a very popular character in the DN fandom, but I don't just want my readers to **_**like**_** him. I want them to **_**identify**_** with him. Do you think I succeeded?**

**Oh, and it was especially hard for me to have this be the origin of L's real name. Lawliet meant nothing. L died for nothing. He died **_**as**_** nothing. It's so sad...**

**Oh, and I have a little story of my own that I'd like to tell. I started writing this chapter yesterday morning, and yesterday afternoon I fell suddenly, violently ill. I broke out in a cold sweat all over, I couldn't breathe, my skin turned white and my lips blue, the circulation to my arms and feet cut off, making my hands stiffen and shake, and it felt as if someone was punching me in the stomach over and over again. Eventually, my parents had to call for an emergency doctor- by this time I was half-conscious and writhing in pain and begging 'help me!', kind of like L in this chapter! And you know, my last thought as I slipped into unconsciousness was that I didn't want to die before I finished this story!**

**It was strange, because I'm usually quite a resistant person. But what was even stranger was that when I woke up- I felt completely fine!**

**I survived for you, so do you think you could review for me? Ha ha ha! Thanks in advance!**

**The next chapter will be happier, thank goodness.**


	10. Nancy

**WARNING: The Author's Note at the end of this chapter will contain SPOILERS for later in the story, so don't read it if you want to keep it a surprise.**

**This is how 'L' came to be a detective...**

--

Watari must have carried me to my room after I'd fainted, because when I woke up I was in my bed and had been changed into some clean pyjamas. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling for a while, thinking. Slowly, the events of the previous day began to piece themselves together in my mind. I remembered being curled up on the ground, hands over my head for protection. I remembered how I cried and begged for help as I struggled to untie myself. I remembered my desperation, and how I'd wet myself in fear.

And I hated it. I hated _myself._ I couldn't stop thinking about how pathetic and helpless I was. I had always prided myself on never giving in to emotion. The very reason that I had any self-esteem left was because I knew I wasn't giving my harassers what they wanted, that I was too strong for them to provoke any reaction out of me. And yet I had cried so easily, and behaved in such an undignified manner. I couldn't bear it.

I lay there, seething, for about an hour, even though my bladder was nagging me to be emptied. I figured I could at least take a little comfort in that nobody except me, Caitlyn, and the three boys would ever know about the incident. I was far too proud to taint my reputation in such a way, and they wouldn't tell because they were smart enough to know that they would be in big trouble if anyone found out.

The door opened, and Watari floated into view. When he saw that I was awake, he smiled. Coming over to my bedside, he said quietly, "How are you feeling?"

I had to swallow several times before I could answer, as my mouth was as dry as Mars. "I'm fine, thank you," I croaked. It felt as if my throat was being painfully grated.

Watari nodded knowingly. He didn't ask what had happened, which I was immensely grateful for. That was the one thing that I valued about Watari over everything else. He understood me. "Do you want anything?" He asked.

"Y... Yes," I said hoarsely, struggling to prop myself up on my elbows. "I... I want cake. Can I have some cake?"

Watari smiled gently. "Of course."

"A-And... some black tea, please. With six sugars."

I felt much better after my meal of New York cheesecake and overly-sweet tea. I managed to get up- though my legs refused to stop shaking, much to my chagrin- and use the toilet and have a long, hot shower. I noticed that water trickling down the drain had turned red. When I looked in the mirror, I saw my body was covered in bloody grazes, and purplish-red bruises, the shape of footprints. My face was even worse. One eye was blackened and swollen completely shut. My lip was split horribly down the middle- which explained the distinctly bitter, bloody taste that my cake had bore- and my nose black and crimson. It hurt to touch, and I worried that it might be broken. It wouldn't have surprised me.

Despite the state I was in, I knew it couldn't be past Friday, so I stubbornly changed into my school uniform and packed my satchel, all set to march straight back into St Benedict's, bruises and all, and prove to Caitlyn and the others that their little _trick_ hadn't affected me in the slightest.

But Watari had other plans. He shook his head firmly, and insisted that I change back into my pyjamas and get straight back in bed. I strongly protested, knowing that if I took a day off, my peers would take it as a sign that I was scared. But then Watari dropped another bombshell.

"You're never going back to that school again," he said decidedly. "From now on, you shall be home-tutored. And that's final."

So of course, I was horrified. I couldn't _leave_! If I did that, everyone would think it was because I couldn't take what they were doing to me. They would have _won_. And I would have lost. It wasn't fair. I was L, I was strong. I could get through it. Only now I wouldn't get the chance, because I was leaving. And I couldn't go back to explain, either, because Watari _put his foot down,_ and you just didn't argue with him when he did that.

It was so unfair.

I told Watari so, and I didn't care that I was being childish. I _was_ childish. I didn't want to leave.

No, that's a lie.

I didn't want to _lose._

I hated hospitals, so Watari called a doctor in specially that afternoon. I was lying deathly bored in my bed when suddenly a tall, white-coated man burst into the room. At first I thought I was dreaming, but then I saw Watari, who explained all about 'Doctor Pritchard'.

He pressed a cold stethoscope to my chest and told me to say 'ahh' like all the other doctors I had ever known. But then he took out a needle and twine. He stuck an injection in my wrist to numb me, and proceeded to stitch my lip back together, muttering about how we should really go to the hospital. It didn't hurt, but I didn't like the feel of the cold needle and rough thread rushing in and out of my flesh. It made my eyes water.

I had a strip of cotton wool and bandages pressed over the bridge of my nose, and was told not to touch them. It was so the cartilage would heal straight. I suppressed a sigh. I _knew_ my nose was broken.

Holding an ice pack over my eye and pretending to be half-asleep, I listened to Doctor Pritchard having 'a quiet word' with Watari. I knew he was asking where my injuries came from. My eyes widened, and I shook my head violently at Watari, silently begging him not to bring it up. I was relieved when Watari answered every question thrown at him with expert vagueness, and before Pritchard left, I saw him slip a few notes into his hand. No words were spoken, but Pritchard eyed Watari carefully before putting the notes in his pocket, accepting the silent bribe.

For the rest of the day and over the weekend, I slipped in and out of myself, only ever getting up to use the toilet or eat. Watari allowed it Saturday and Sunday, but on Monday he insisted that I get up and wash and dress myself. My wounds were still very noticeable, but as Watari said, I could at least make myself look presentable for my tutor.

I was expecting the home tutor to be an older man, like Watari, but it was a woman, barely a day over thirty. I called her by her first name- Nancy. She was pink and plump, with curly, chestnut-coloured hair. She was a very patient, gentle teacher. She always spoke very quietly, so quiet that I often misheard her. She taught me all the things I would have been learning were I still at St Benedict's, so I often already knew much of the information she was telling me, but I never got bored. Nancy told everything in such a way that it was impossible for me to be bored.

I liked Nancy very much. So did Watari. I didn't notice at first, but Nancy started spending more and more time at our house. Often, when she arrived in the morning, she and Watari talked for so long that I missed my first lesson altogether. I never thought that there was anything more between them than a close friendship- perhaps because Watari was so much older than Nancy- but they started going out together on a night, leaving me at home. When they came back, sometimes they would be holding hands. One night, when I heard Nancy's car pull up outside our house, I looked out the bedroom window and saw that they were _kissing_.

I asked Watari about it the next day, though I had long since figured everything out. Watari told me that he was 'very fond' of Nancy, and asked me what I thought of her. I told him I liked her. Watari seemed pleased, and did I like her enough to see her every day? I shrugged. I saw her every weekday anyway- what difference did two more days do?

So Nancy moved in with us. Nancy laughed and said she'd sort us out. By this time I was fourteen, and had discarded all of the advice Mummy had given me all those years ago about always looking my best (though I still didn't feel comfortable unless my room was completely spotless). There were some days when I didn't even bother to change out of my pyjamas. I didn't really care about my clothes- I just wore the same outfit every day until someone complained about the smell or dirt. I just wore plain jeans and an old top or T-shirt. It didn't really matter how I looked, seeing as I barely left the house.

I didn't really any _need_ to leave the house. Instead, I buried myself in my studies. As well as English, French and German, which I learned with Nancy, I started learning Japanese and Italian. I worked through entire piles of maths and history text books. I helped Watari in his lab, brushing up on my science. Within a few weeks, I had read every book in the house.

Nancy said she'd soon put a stop to that. "All work and no play is bad for you." She examined my pallid feature and insisted that I got some 'vitamin D' into my system. She was a great nature-lover, and didn't believe in staying cooped up indoors all day. She suggested that she, Watari and I all go out somewhere, as a family.

Family. The words sounded so alien to me.

Watari booked a cottage in the Lake District for a weekend. We packed the bags and got the car loaded up, and were all ready to go. And then I found that I couldn't leave the house. The huge, bright world stretched out in front of me like a monster, ready to swallow me. I couldn't step outside. The sun was too bright and the air was too fresh and the noise was too loud. My mind flashed back to when I was tied to the train tracks in the open air, screaming.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't go outside.

So we cancelled the holiday and unpacked all the bags and stayed at home. Whereas Watari never brought my worries to light for fear that it would upset me, Nancy thought it was important to talk about things like this. She put her arm around me in a hug and told me that we weren't going to let this beat us.

She didn't know it, but that line spurred me into action. I wasn't going to let it beat me. I wasn't afraid. I wasn't afraid.

So I put L into play. I opened the curtains in my rooms- which hadn't been drawn in about half a year. I opened all the windows in the house, gradually, one by one. I had to get used to the air and light again. I even slept with the curtains open at night. I didn't like it. I could almost feel the outside closing in on me, like some wild animal ready to pounce. I had to fight down the urge to hide under my duvet.

And in a few months I was ready to step out into the real world again. I hadn't believed I was really agoraphobic until then, that it was just a little game the L was playing with me to pass the time- but I had to hold on to Watari and Nancy's hands so tightly as I took a few shaky steps outside into our front garden, my first in half a year.

Once I'd made it outside, it wasn't so difficult to do it again. And again, and again. Nancy would make up all sorts of excuses to try and get me outdoors. One evening she asked me to go round to the corner shop to buy some milk for breakfast the next morning.

It was only about six o'clock, but it was late December and night fell early. It was almost pitch dark as I set off for home, carrier bag in hand.

As I meandered through the few winding streets that lead from the shop, I suddenly felt a hand grasp my wrist. Before I could even gasp I was pushed up against the cold brick wall, my hands pinned above my head. I struggled, twisting my head to try to get a look at my attacker. I didn't cry out.

My eyes widened as I felt a large, moist hand slide up my shirt, stroking over my skin. I could hear my attacker breathing heavily behind me. From the gruffness of the voice I could tell it was a man, and from the stink of alcohol that clung to him I could tell he was drunk. The hand reached my chest, then stopped. I held my breath, my heart pounding. Then I heard the man let out a cry of disgust, and the hand withdrew from my shirt and I was slammed against the wall.

I heard some other men laughing, but I didn't turn around from facing the wall. My attacker spat noisily.

"Yeah, yeah, I thought he was a lass!"

I stood there, pressed against the wall, forgotten. I didn't dare move until I heard the footsteps fade away, just in case they decided to come back. Slowly, I picked up the carrier bag I had dropped, and carried on my way home.

And the strange thing was, though inside I was shaking, L was feeling quite jovial. He had put a spring in my step, and I didn't know why. When I got home, I located all the detective novels in the house and sat down with them stacked around me, studying them.

I could hear L telling me how interesting it would be to bring justice to people like _that._ Interesting. Not gratifying, knowing that I saved people. Just interesting.

I began to think- what if I _had_ been 'a lass'? What would that man have done to me? Ha. I had no doubt what he would have done. What if it hadn't been me who had happened to be walking by at that moment, but a woman? No, a young girl, maybe my own age? The thought would have made me shudder- if I wasn't L, that is.

All night, L thought about how interesting it would be to lead a life of 'justice'. And somewhere along the way, I found myself agreeing with him.

And the next day, I told Watari that I wanted to become a detective.

--

**And that's how the great detective 'L' came to be. Strange isn't it- if he hadn't gone to that shop, or if he'd taken a different route... Well, think about it.**

**SPOILER WARNING.**

**Okay, now that **_**that's**_** out of the way, I would like to take a moment to ask you all something as a reader. Would you, or would you not, continue reading this story if I were to raise the rating to M? Because I'm fairly sure I will have to later in this story for some of the events in L's life I will have to depict, that is, a string of incidents that occur when he is in his late teens/early twenties, and his relationship with Light. I plan to keep things vague, but I don't want to change the plot I have concocted, as I think it is effective; however I will do so if many people would be offended by such things. I'm not saying 'L and Light have lots of sex' or anything like that- I don't want a 'lemon'. I want something deep and raw and emotional. I have never written anything M-rated before, so I'm not sure how it will turn out, but I just think the storyline would be more dramatic if I didn't stick to 'playing it safe'. However, it is basically down to you. I'm not planning on writing anything obscene or pornographic, as that would ruin the effect, but I do believe that the content which I will be describing requires an M-rating. Please tell me what you think.**

**As always, read and review, and thank you!**


	11. B

**There wasn't always only one 'L'...**

--

I didn't start taking cases right away. Despite my mental capability, I understood that most people wouldn't feel comfortable with hiring a fourteen-year-old detective. So I took it upon myself to get involved, well, unofficially. I visited the court house in the neighbouring town to sit in on the cases that were open to the public. The cases that were handled there were mostly petty crimes committed by small-time thugs who were obviously guilty. This made it easier for me to practice. If I knew the criminals were guilty, I could work the evidence around them and fit everything into place. Nobody noticed when my little handheld camera slipped out of my pocket and snapped a few pictures, or when a copy of the files went missing for a few minutes when I oh-so conveniently happened to be using the bathroom.

I scanned and copied all the written evidence, and printed photos of the object evidence. I knew what I was doing was illegal, but I had to practice somehow. And besides, who would ever suspect a little boy?

They were rather easy, those first few cases. I had often deduced the riddles long before the defence and prosecution did, and had reached the conclusion before the jury, too. They were all so simple. I was amazed as to how other people couldn't see what was right in front of their noses. But I knew what was wrong. They weren't using their imaginations. They had to think _outside_ of the box and reach the right verdict- by any means necessary.

I remember, once, I saw a guilty man get declared innocent and dismissed without punishment. I didn't understand it. It was so obvious it was him. I sat there, helpless, furious at the idiocy of the judge and jury and angry at myself for being so young. Even if I spoke up, I knew there was no way they'd listen to me.

Afterwards, I approached the D.C.I. who handled the case. He was a large man with a red face and a belly swollen with drinking too much alcohol. I could tell what sort of person he was, just by looking at him.

"You were wrong," I told him. "That man was guilty. The knife that the prints were wiped from held traces of mechanical oil. The defendant claimed he was working in his garage that night, fixing his car. That would result in at least a small amount of oil ending up on his hands. Not only that, but his neighbour testified that she smelled burning early on the morning after the crime. She said it offhandedly, so the jury didn't notice, but I think it's likely that smell was from the smoke as the defendant burned the clothes he wore during the crime. And he dumped the ashes when he walked his dog that morning. Check his route. You'll find the remains."

He looked at me incredulously for a moment, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then he laughed. "Young man, I don't think I need someone to tell me how to do my job. Especially not a child," he said.

And that was the way it was. Nobody listened to 'children', especially not in this sort of business. I knew that. I knew that, but... it still made me angry. Because I knew I was right.

But my words didn't go unnoticed. The D.I. that worked under the red-faced man caught up with me outside of the courthouse.

"Hey, kid!"

I assumed that was mean to be me. I was the only person under thirty in the place. I wheeled around, my face blank but my mind racing. "Yes?"

The D.I. stumbled towards me. He was fumbling with his briefcase and dropping his files and working himself up into a fluster. "Hey," he said again, though he already had my attention- and that of everyone else in the immediate area.

"Listen up," he said, lowering his voice and leaning in closer to me, his too-long hair dangling down into my face. "I heard what you said to me boss, and I think..." he looked around. "I think you're right. I said the same thing."

I blinked. This wasn't what I had been expecting.

"Y'know, I come here a lot, and every time I do, you're here," the D.I. said. He suddenly looked panicked. "Not that I'm suspicious of you or anything!" He sighed. "Look, what I was _meaning_ to say is... maybe we can help each other out. The way you stood up to my boss in there was really something- you don't know what he's like in the office! If we had someone like you on the team- even only part time or... Oh, but you probably have work already..." He trailed off suddenly. He leaned back and folded his arms. "Wait a minute, how old are you exactly?"

"Eighteen," I said without hesitating. "I'm currently at university studying to be a private detective. But I've already gone through all the studies I need to qualify. That's why I'm here. I'm practicing my skills."

The D.I. rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You look very young for eighteen..." That was an understatement. I was fourteen, and had the body of a ten year old. But L's ability to lie so convincingly overshadowed this fact, and he fell for it hook, line and sinker.

"I assure you, it is my age. Feel free not to believe me, it will not change anything," I told him plainly. Then, just to be safe I added, "I was born very prematurely. I have always been small. I cannot change this fact."

The D.I. nodded. He wasn't winning any points for accurate judgement. But he seemed like I could trust him. It was clear he trusted me, too, despite having only just met me. It almost made me feel bad for using him to get me into the criminal affairs department.

Almost.

"I'd like to get involved in your department," I told him. "However, as it stands, I am a private detective. This means I must not meet face-to-face with other officers. If I am to work with you, you're going to have to trust me. You understand?"

The D.I. frowned and looked around again. "I'm listening..."

"From what you've told me, I think it's clear that we're on the same boat. We could help each other. We could change how these cases are handled. Break free of police corruption." Oh yes, I could have a silver tongue when I wanted to. If I could do one thing, it was act. I don't think I ever stopped playing a role.

"What do you suggest we do?" Amazing. He really was naive, wasn't he...?

"I suggest..." I raised my thumb to my lips thoughtfully. "That we work together. You do your best to have cases put in your control. You will then report these cases to me, and we will work together to solve them. Of course, you must still allow your colleagues access to the case information, as not to arouse suspicion. However, the real investigators will be only you and me."

I saw the D.I. bite his lip. "I-I don't know... I don't want to go behind their backs or anything..."

"It would be for their own good. Sometimes, things can get dangerous. That's why I need someone willing to risk everything. Someone with instinct and determination. Like you," I said, the words spinning from my mouth like silk. "I've been watching you, too."

The D.I. took a deep breath. Then he held out his hand for me to shake. "Okay," he said. "It's a deal. My name's Chris, by the way. Chris Juniper."

"I'm..." I paused. "You can call me Ryuzaki."

I could barely believe it. He'd drank in all that rubbish. He actually believed me! And now I was in. I was a detective. Albeit an illegal one, but still, it was a start. I wasn't at all worried about being caught. I was fourteen years old. Nobody would ever suspect.

Chris didn't know that I was using him. He was so naive, so gullible. He was young, only in his early twenties, and new to the force. His inexperience was obvious. But then, we were both new at our jobs. He might not have been the sharpest tool in the box, but he showed flashes of real insight. He had a certain spark that made him a better detective than any of those veterans that he worked for. Except he worked for me now. Even though he didn't know it.

We solved countless cases together, Chris and I. At first we were just given the easy jobs, because Chris was young and they didn't know about me working in the shadows. But then when 'Chris' effortlessly solved every case that was thrown at him, his superiors began to trust him. By the time I was fourteen and a half years old, I'd worked on over twenty robbery cases, five assaults, and even a murder or two.

It was foolish of me to think that Watari and Nancy wouldn't become even a little suspicious. I knew that Watari would leave me be- he always had. He didn't seem to care what I did, as long as I kept up my studies and was a good student and didn't get myself killed. Nancy, however, became quite worried. She would fluster over why I was spending so much time in my room, alone. She wondered if I was depressed. I heard her talking to Watari about it, and he said he'd talk to me.

Then he came into my room and locked the door so that Nancy couldn't come in.

"You are going to tell me _everything_ that you've been doing," he said quietly.

And so I did. I knew I could trust Watari. He wouldn't tell a soul, not even Nancy. Especially not Nancy. He sat in silence as I told him all about Chris and the team and the cases I'd solved, nodding in all the right places.

Then, when I'd finished, he simply said "Okay," and left.

I thought that would be the end of it. But about a week later, a letter arrived, addressed to me. It was labelled 'Top Secret', and I was instructed to burn it after reading. It was a letter to say I'd been accepted as a private detective, under rule of the government. I would be allowed to continue my work, legally. If needed, I would be allowed assistance from the government. It seemed that I had involuntarily joined the secret services.

Of course, that was fine with me. I stopped working with Chris and started taking cases all by myself. Sometimes a letter requesting my services would arrive in the post, but most often I would spy a case that piqued my curiosity on the news or in the papers and I would send a message requesting that I take it up, using the telephone number that had been printed on the letter I had been sent.

Watari bought my own telephone and installed into it a device that would distort the pitch and frequency of my voice so that nobody could recognize my voice as that of a child's. I suppose he knew that nobody would have any faith in a child detective, no matter how many cases they had solved. So narrow-minded.

When I was fifteen we moved house, to a large converted manor in Winchester. It was a truly monstrous building, but big enough for me to disappear for a few hours without having any chance of being discovered. There were whole rooms dedicated to my detective work.

Speaking of my work, for the first time in my life I felt that I was actually doing something worthwhile. Being able to understand what others couldn't made me feel special. It was the first time in years that I felt like I _mattered._ Like someone needed me.

I was going up in the world and I knew it. I was aware of the rumours flying around the police force of the mystery detective 'L'. I wasn't famous yet- I wasn't good enough to be. It frustrated me to acknowledge, but I knew I wasn't at my best. I could still do more. I needed more cases. I needed more practice.

But as I wrapped myself up in my work, I could feel myself drifting further and further away from Watari and Nancy. I would only venture out of my room for my lessons. Watari had to bring me my meals upstairs on a tray, which he left outside of my door just in case I was hungry. Nancy worried terribly. She said I was becoming isolated; even after all the work I did to get accustomed to going outside.

And then Watari suggested adopting another child. He said it might bring me out of my shell. When I think about it now, I know that wasn't his real intention. He saw my potential, and he wanted to find me an heir as soon as possible. It was understandable. Watari was an inventor, and I was his greatest creation. It wasn't surprising that he wanted to make a copy.

I couldn't believe that Nancy couldn't see that this was what he had been planning all along. Why else move to such a big house? I knew once he adopted another child, there would be others following. This was going to be a children's home.

I remember the first time I saw the child Watari had selected. I hadn't met him before his moving in, but I knew he was a boy about a year younger than me. I'd stayed in my room making notes on a particularly interesting case of suspected terrorism during the time that he was moving in and sorting out his things. I didn't really feel the need to meet him, to be honest. He was nothing to do with me.

I was taking a break, on my way to the bathroom, when I first saw him. Tall. Thin. Dark Dangerous. I knew he was younger than me, but he was at least a head taller, and he wore a short-sleeved T-shirt to show off his toned arms. He couldn't have been more than fourteen. But he looked at least three years my senior.

He was walking with his back to me. He didn't walk like me. My eyes had been permanently glued to the floor when I was at St Benedict's, and the habit had stuck, and I now walked with a slight hunch, my head bowed. _He_ stood straight and tall, his hands swinging casually by his sides, emitting an air of confidence. His hair was black, like mine, but shorter. It was just as wild, but somehow he made it look _good_. His clothes were almost identical to mine, except he wore a short-sleeved shirt and his jeans were more faded, but he looked very different from me in them.

For some reason, just for a second, I felt thirteen years old again, hunched over and hiding my face, in the showers after P.E.

But a moment later I was L again. I couldn't let myself give in and remember that time. It was over now, and I never had to go back. For months after I'd left I'd had vivid nightmares about being tied to the tracks. Only then I didn't quite get the ropes off in time. Eventually I decided that they had to stop- and so they did. I was the one in control. And no-one was ever going to make a fool out of me again.

"Hello," I said blankly. I had no intention of talking to him, but I wanted to see his face.

The boy whirled around. He stared at me with the strangest look in his dark maroon eyes. I stared back. It was like looking in a mirror. We had the same big, dark eyes, the same arched nose, the same angular chin and prominent cheekbones. His skin was more tanned than my own pallid complexion, and his eyes had a reddish tint to them, but other than that, we were almost identical. It was as if he was an older version of me. Or I was a younger version of him.

I was so fascinated that I didn't notice him speeding towards me. In an instant I was seized by the front of my shirt and slammed against the wall. One strong arm hand held me in place while the other pressed harder and harder against my throat, blocking my windpipe.

I was stunned, but not for long. I didn't know what this boy's game was, but I wasn't going to just stand there and let him strangle me. Like I said. No-one was ever going to make a fool out of me again.

I brought my leg up and drove my knee into his stomach. He instantly let me go and stumbled back, coughing. Then he flew at me, and we were on the floor, rolling over and over, hitting and kicking out at each other, wanting to hurt.

I fought my way on top, pinning him down. I punched him again and again, until his face became slippery with blood beneath my fists. I didn't care. I wanted to hurt someone. Anyone. _Him_.

He suddenly raised his hands and blocked my failing fists. Then his body jerked and he kicked up between my legs. A cheap trick. I let my guard down, just for a second, and he flipped me over. He sat on my chest and pinned both my arms down at my sides. Then he spat in my face.

"Who are you?" He asked. There was no anger or hate in his voice. Just a simple curiosity. It was difficult to believe that he was the same boy who'd just attacked me for no reason.

I looked up at him, bloody saliva dribbling down my bruised cheeks. "I am L," I said emotionlessly.

The boy looked amused. "It's nice to meet you... L," he said.

"Please address me as Ryuzaki."

The boy snorted as if I'd said something funny. I just looked in the blank way I always did, never breaking eyes contact with him. He looked away first. He released his iron grip on me. He left red rings around my wrists, but I didn't rub them to ease the throbbing.

The boy stood up. I didn't.

I watched as he turned his back and continued walking casually down the corridor, his hair, clothes and face a mess, acting as if the whole fight never happened.

"I am B," he said, without turning to face me.

--

**This is the first chapter I've written so far that I don't particularly care for. I prefer to talk about L's **_**life**_** rather than his work. I think the beginning of this chapter was very shoddy. Perhaps I'll edit it later.**

**On another note, I think my ambition to become a writer has really been tried this week, for two main reasons.**

**Reason one: my sister Grace, who is fourteen (a year younger than myself), has started writing 'a book'. This might sound like a terribly childish thing to get upset about, but please try to understand. Throughout my life, I've done many things. I play the piano, violin and guitar, practice Aikido, am a member of several orchestras and a choir, attend a theatre school at weekends and have worked with amateur film making companies to make film shorts. But I didn't feel fulfilled. But a few years ago I found the one thing that I was really passionate about, and that was writing. It was who I was, and who I wanted to be as well. Whenever anyone asks what I want to be 'when I grow up', I say a writer. And now my little sister has started writing.**

**I can't help thinking 'why does she always have to copy me?'. When I voiced this opinion, my father said that, because I am the oldest of a family of six children, I am the role model. It's because Grace admires me that she wants to be like me, and so I should feel flattered. But, it's hard to feel flattered when your little sister is doing everything that you want to do, only ten times better than you did at that age and getting a whole lot of praise and support out of it.**

**I think that's really the main thing. Every time I settle down to write, it's "Lily, get your head out of that computer", or "Lily, come downstairs and join your family" or "Lily, you should be studying". But when Grace does it, she gets "This is brilliant, Grace, well done" and "Have you seen your sisters work, it's really good!" and "Get off the computer, Lily, and let your sister on, she wants to write." And I hate it. They don't know that they're doing it, so I shouldn't be angry at them, but I am. And I'm almost crying as I'm writing this, which is a big thing for me. It takes a lot to make someone like me cry. But it's because I'm so passionate about writing that it can get to me like this.**

**And another thing. I find myself resenting Grace for it. She'll be writing, and she'll say "Lily, help me, I'm stuck", and I won't. When asked why, I once replied "Because I want it to be rubbish." I know it's selfish. But why can't I be selfish for once?**

**Reason two happened just a few hours ago. I'm at the point in my life where my last year of school is approaching. We are expected to choose our colleges and career paths around this time. When asked by my teacher "What do you want to do?" I said I was going to be a writer. (There's no 'want' about it, though of course I didn't say that.) And you know what she did? She laughed in my face. She called my ambition 'silly' and said that she 'knew my age group', and I told her she was being shamelessly ageist. She replied "No, I'm a realist and an experienced teacher." I knew what she meant. She meant that I was rubbish. She was trying to get me to give up my dream. I was furious. I felt that she had no right to judge me without ever having read some of my work. But because I am a child and she is an adult, I am automatically inferior to her, and there was nothing I could say or do in my defence that wouldn't result in me being punished.**

**But these obstacles are necessary in the long run, and serve only to make me more determined! All the doubts and insults will make success so much sweeter! I'm grown up enough to know that nothing comes easily. At least, nothing like this.**

**As usual, please read and review and tell me what you thought of this chapter. And feel free to completely disregard my incessant ramblings just now. I just had a lot to get off my chest, and this, I felt, was an effective way of doing so.**


	12. Public Enemy Number One

**L's real name...**

--

It was made clear to me from day one that to B I was public enemy number one. He hated me. I didn't hate him, though. I was indifferent to him. Often I barely acknowledged his presence at all, which admittedly I did partly just to enrage him. It frustrated him that he was unable to provoke a reaction from me. He tried so many ways to try to get me to snap.

I was home-tutored, but B went to a private school called Redmason's. Nancy hinted once or twice that maybe I should go back to school, so that I could make friends and develop my social life- but I was already so emotionally stunted that I knew it would never work. Watari made up a story about how I'd been expelled for fighting at my old school. I was grateful. It was much, much better than the truth.

B tried very hard at school. Even though I wasn't there with him, and he was in year nine (the year below me) and so was learning different things, I knew he was doing it to get to me. He knew my intellect, and he wanted to undermine it. He wanted to prove he was smarter than me. He even took up consuming large amounts of sugar to match me, jam, mostly. He had to turn everything in to a competition.

This didn't bother me in the slightest. I wasn't at all concerned about being surpassed by B. I was completely confident in my abilities. I was the best. He was adopted to be _my_ copy- not the other way around.

I think the fact that the sole reason for B's adoption was so that he could be my understudy was what angered him the most. I had the lead role and commandeered the stage, while he was forced to skulk in the shadows backstage. _He_ wanted to be the one in control- and I understood that. But that didn't mean I was going to step down. Not in a million years.

When he realized that he couldn't break me through the power of his mind, he converted to a different method. I'll give him credit where it's due- he knew my weaknesses. Even though they were painfully obvious, he was the only one who knew how to exploit them.

Like me, B didn't have any friends at St Benedict's. I suppose he thought them 'beneath him'. Unlike me, however, he did have 'acquaintances'. Maybe it was his apparent confidence or his mystery or the dangerous air that hung about him; for some reason he attracted a lot of attention. From girls, mainly.

Every week he'd bring a new one home. Nancy would shake her head and call him a 'ladies man', but I could tell she didn't really mind. After dealing with me, I supposed she was just glad he had people his age to talk to. B would always take them to the room just next to whichever room _I_ was in to laugh and talk loudly about all the normal things teenagers talked about, such as rock bands and what was on television.

And I knew he was mocking me. Though I couldn't see him, I knew that behind his laughter and flirtations there would be nothing but contempt in his eyes. He was showing me that he could do the one thing I couldn't. He could be normal.

Once, I remember, I was hunched up in my room in the dark when the door suddenly flew open and B practically fell into the room with a girl in his arms, kissing her passionately.

"Oh, sorry," he said, his face twisting into a smile. "Wrong room."

The girl he was with giggled, her cheeks pink. "Who's _that?" _She asked, narrowing her eyes through the darkness to try and get a better look at me. I shuffled further back into the shadows.

"Don't mind him," B said, bending his head to kiss her again. He looked at me as his lips met hers, his eyes smirking. "That's just my little big brother." He whispered something in her ear and she burst out laughing, looking at me.

"Please get out of my room and close the door behind you," I said quietly.

"Of course, Little Brother. Whatever you say," B said, still smirking.

That was who I was to B. I was always his 'little brother', despite my being a year older than him. He didn't think of me as a brother and he certainly didn't treat me like it either. It was another of his tricks, another attempt to get on my nerves.

I managed to ignore him most of the time. I bound myself to my work, taking on as many cases as possible. B knew about my career as a detective, and it added to the pile of things that caused him to hate me so. I think he secretly thought that he could do better. Ha.

"Can I help you?" He asked one day when I was working. I eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the trick. Surprisingly, it didn't come. "I want to work, too, Little Brother. Let me help you."

And for a second, it was really as if he _was_ my brother. My bratty little brother begging to play with the big kids. And if that was the case, then I thought I'd better get into 'brother' mode, too.

"No. Find something else to do. I'm busy."

And B said nothing, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that I was going to be punished for my answer later. I didn't worry about it. B meant nothing to me. I didn't care what he did.

I must admit, he did a good job of catching me off guard.

B liked science. He loved the chemicals and the explosions. He loved concocting different potions. He would bustle around Watari's lab, his eyes ablaze with delight. It was a very dangerous sort of blaze. I should have suspected his revenge would have something to do with the various chemicals he created. I just didn't expect it to be so simple. Which is why, I suppose, I fell for it.

He waited until Friday night. That way, he would be free to torture me over the weekend, and I would have no lessons, so Nancy wouldn't wonder about my whereabouts. I knew he knew that nobody would think twice if I disappeared for a while. I spent most of my time in my room anyway.

So, on Friday evening, I was working alone as usual. Watari had left my tea outside of my door on a tray, as usual. That's when I assume B struck. I don't know what he put in my food, but it tasted perfectly normal. He was clever about it, too. He knew I wouldn't touch the poached haddock, so he spiked the sugary dessert instead. He'd done his homework.

The chocolate cake didn't taste any different from the usual, so I ate it all. Things soon got a little hazy after that. All I remember is feeling tired, so tired. I wanted to sleep, which was odd for me. I rarely ever slept unless it was absolutely necessary.

I only just made it to my bed in time. I collapsed onto the mattress, my breathing heavy. And then the world faded into black...

When I came to all I could register in my fuzzy mind was the clogging stench of dust and mothballs. I blinked hard to clear my vision, but then I realised that it was the room that was dark. I could see a sliver of light dashed across the wooden floorboards coming from the crack in the closed door. I had no doubt that it would be locked, too.

I struggled, trying to get my circulation going properly. This was easier said than done, as I was currently bund to a chair with what must have been at least four whole rolls of duct tape. I pulled at it experimentally, my heartbeat quickening. I had hoped never to be tied up again. It reminded me of being tied to the train tracks, so helpless and alone...

I almost gasped as suddenly two hands shot out from behind me and clamped over my eyes and onto my chin, holding my head in place.

"Guess who," I chilling voice whispered in my ear.

I made a great show of rolling my eyes and sighing exasperatedly. I could almost _feel_ the fury radiating off my captor. "Is this really necessary, B?" I asked emotionlessly, nodding down towards my immobile body. Even my fingers were taped together. The only range of movement I had was above my neck.

"No," B admitted. "This is just for fun." He walked round the wooden chair that I was taped to so he stood in front of me. He grinned smugly. "Scared?"

"Not really, no," I said casually. "There's nothing you can do to me."

He slapped my face.

I smiled, tasting the blood on my lip. "Like I said," I repeated. "There's nothing you can do to me."

The grin had faded from B's face. He kicked my chair. Then he grabbed my shoulders and leaned into me so that we were almost nose-to-nose. "I don't think you _quite_ understand the situation, _Little Brother_," he seethed. "There is a _great deal_ I could do to you." He accented the end of his sentence with another slap to my face.

I barely blinked, though my cheeks were stinging. "And what would that be, other than hitting me?" I asked insolently.

B stared at me, incredulous, for a moment. Then his face took on a determined expression, and he fumbled in his pocket to retrieve what looked like a long, thin blade.

"Open your mouth," he ordered.

I did not comply. Instead I just stared at him blankly. The one expression he hated above all others. He snapped. Grabbing a handful of my hair, he jerked my head back so viciously that my neck clicked. With his other hand he grasped my chin, trying to force my mouth open.

I struggled and tried to snatch my head away. I hated myself for giving him a reaction, but I didn't want to obey his orders willingly, either. I bit his hand. Hard. He yelped, but took advantage of my open mouth. Immediately he slid the blade inside.

"Move and you die. See?" B taunted.

I saw. I knew B would never be able to kill me. He relied on me to feed his anger and hatred. But right now there was a knife pressing against my tongue, and though B couldn't kill me with it, he could certainly do a lot of damage.

He tipped my head from side to side, using his fingers to keep my jaw hung open. He peered into my mouth and frowned.

"When was the last time you went to the dentist's, Little Brother?" He asked. "All that sugar can't be good for them, after all. You might need a filling. You might..." The tip of the blade clinked out a jittery rhythm over my teeth. "Even need some pulling out."

His mouth twisted up into a wicked smile. "You don't need _all_ your teeth, do you Little Brother?" He asked- and sunk the cold, pointed tip of the blade into the back gums on my lower jaw. I didn't scream, though it hurt and I could feel my mouth filling with blood. B, annoyed that I refused to show my pain, twisted the blade, shredding away the wet flesh inside my mouth.

A trickle of my own blood slid down my throat and I coughed. With my head tilted back, I couldn't spit the blood out like I wanted. I choked. Blood spattered across B's face, which only broadened his grin.

"Does it hurt, Little Brother?" He asked kindly, stroking my hair. "Aww. What a shame."

The blade began to grind against my back molar, chipping away the enamel. B then forced his dirty fingers into my mouth and tugged at the tooth experimentally. It barely moved. B sighed and raised his eyebrows at me as if it was my fault. Then the blade was replaced and the whole process started all over again.

And it hurt. Oh God, it hurt so much. But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing this. I sat there, perfectly still, not struggling, not crying out, as the insides of my mouth were reduced to shreds at the mercy of a thin, sharp instrument.

My tooth was twisted in its roots. I could feel the sharp edge of it poking into my tongue as it sat half-in, half-out of my gums. B positioned the blade's tip underneath it. Then, like a lever, he gave it one sharp jolt and tore my tooth from my mouth.

And I'll admit that it took all my willpower not to scream.

The blade left my mouth and the hand released my hair. My head lurched forward and I let the blood pour down my chin and soak my clothes. Inside my mouth, I felt with my tongue the bloody gap that B had left there.

"How's that, L?" B whispered. His voice rose suddenly to a shriek. "_How's that L?! _He bent down and picked up the crimson-stained tooth that I had spat out off the floor. He waved it in front of my face.

"Look!" He screamed in my face, showering me with flecks of saliva. "Look at what I can do to you. The Great L, at my mercy! Who's superior _now_, L?"

"I have told you," I said breathily. My voice was trembling and bubbling with the blood, but I fought to control it and it stayed carefully neutral. "There's nothing you can do to me that will bring you any satisfaction. You want me to fear you. Hate you. But I do not." I looked him directly in the eyes, black against red. "I feel _nothing_ for you."

B's chest had started heaving at the start of my sentence, and by the end his eyes had turned bloodshot and I felt sure he was going to go insane and attack me with the blade he had just tortured me with. "I'll kill you," he hissed.

"Go on then. Do it. Kill me," I said. I lowered my voice. "But what would that really prove? Only that you couldn't beat me when I was alive, and that you had to kill me to win. You're a pitiful child, B." My voice was cut off by the blade being pressed against my throat.

"You watch what you say, Little Brother," B snarled, baring all his feral teeth, his red eyes glowing. Then he stood up and turned his back on me. He headed for the door. "I'll be back," he said.

He took his small jam pot out of his pocket and unscrewed the lid. Dipping in finger, he brought out a smear of jam which he dabbed on the very tip of my nose. Such a small act, but a humiliating one nonetheless. He had marked me, and I couldn't raise my hands to wipe it away.

I heard the click of a lock as B closed the door behind him and I was left in the murky darkness once more. He hadn't taped over my mouth, and I knew this was done on purpose. He wanted me to cry for help. Our house was so big there was little chance that anyone would hear me, even if I did. There were even a few rooms we hadn't even been into. My guess was that _this_ was one of them.

Part of the line of light that shot through the gaps around the door was blocked. I almost sighed at his stupidity. B was obviously stood behind the door.

"B," I called out. "I know you're there. I just have a few questions. How long do you plan on keeping me here?"

There was a pause, and then I heard B's voice, louder and deeper than my own. "As long as I keep taking your meals away from in front of your bedroom door, Watari and Nancy will think you're in there. Nobody should miss you for a few days, though I'll have to let you out for your tutor lessons. Can't have The Great L falling behind, now, can we?"

"I see," I said offhandedly. "What should I do should I have to take care of my bodily functions?" Then I added, if only to annoy him, "By that I mean use the toilet, of course. I wouldn't like to confuse you."

I heard a bang on the door. I smiled, knowing I had gotten to him. I was still winning.

"Nobody's stopping you from going." I heard B spit, and then his shadow disappeared from behind the door.

It was frightfully dull, being cooped up in that dusty little room with no mysteries to keep me entertained. I sat there, in the dark, for three hours. Four... Five...

By this time my bladder was aching. I needed to go. _Badly._ But I refused to give B the satisfaction. I kept wrinkling my nose- the jam that was spread over the tip felt as if it was burning right through my skin. And my hands and feet were turning numb as my circulation slowed.

It took B exactly five hours and twenty-two minutes to come back. He smirked at me in triumph after he'd locked the door and switched on the dim filament light bulb that hung from the ceiling.

"Aww, poor thing," he cooed, cupping my face in his hands and stroking his thumbs over my cheeks, grinning maniacally. "You tried so hard not to go, didn't you? You've ruined your jeans. Tsk, tsk."

"_Untie me, B,"_ I said through clenched teeth. The shame and humiliation were too much to bear.

"Oh, is the baby sulking?" B laughed, and my face began to burn horribly. I ducked my head. I couldn't stand B seeing me blush. It was too embarrassing. I had to get a grip. Maybe the five hours had gotten to me, but I felt that I was losing the upper hand.

"You're bright red, L," B stated plainly. I could almost feel the steam coming out of my ears. It was the closest I'd ever felt to hating him, and it was all because of my foolish pride. He tugged my ear playfully.

"Even your ears are scarlet." He released my face and stood back, admiring what he had caused. "I can't _wait _to see what you're going to do about the other thing..."

"You are a sad, pathetic little boy," I said. B just smiled.

"If it weren't for your cute little blushing cheeks, I just might've gotten angry there," B teased, leaning in towards me. "What's the matter, Little Brother? Why are you getting so embarrassed about it?"

It was because I had unwillingly given in to him. I had given him what he wanted. And now my pride was hurt, and the worst part about it was that that had been his aim all along. He _wanted_ to humiliate me. And if that was what he wanted, then I wasn't going to feel humiliated any more.

After deciding this, my face cooled down rapidly, which I was grateful for. I felt ready to take him on again, even with the uncomfortable dampness in my jeans. B took out his blade and I just blinked, giving him what I hoped was a bored look.

"That again?" I said. "Very well. What are you planning on chopping off this time?"

B raised his eyebrows at me. "You shouldn't tempt me. I might decide to chop off something that you'll need in the future. Your right hand for example. Or..." I felt the tip of the knife tracing up my inner thigh. I didn't look down at the knife. I only looked at B, and those blazing, red eyes.

"Shall I tell you a secret, Little Brother?" B whispered against my ear. I fought not to shudder. "These eyes I have, they're no ordinary pair of eyes. They can see into your soul. Here, Little Brother," he waved his hand above my head. "Here is where I can see your lifespan. It's decreasing even now, tick tock, tick tock, like a clock. Your time's running out, Little Brother. You're going to die."

I knew what he was saying could not have been more than imbecilic conjecture made up to frighten me- but I shivered. B felt it and chuckled.

"Would you like to know, L," he said. "Would you like me to tell you just how long you've got left?" He paused, waiting for my answer. When I gave him none, he continued.

"You know, that's not all I can see. I can see names. Your name. Your _real_ name. Now, what could that be...?" He moved in front on me again so that we were nose-to-nose. "Could it possibly be..."

I began to shake my head. I'd had so many names in my short life. I didn't want to know which ones were truths and which ones were lies.

"L..."

"No... stop it..."

B licked his lips. It looked like he would get his reaction after all.

"Law...li...et."

My eyes widened. My heart started pounding. Beads of sweat broke out on my skin. I took a deep breath, and...

"_That's not my name!"_ I screamed it at him louder than I'd intended to. He reeled back, covering his ears with his hands. He was grinning wider than I'd ever seen him grin before. And then I realized what I'd done.

I'd lost.

Again.

B let me go later that day. "I've already gotten what I wanted, so there's no point in keeping you locked up and building up a case against me." As soon as he let me go I made a dash for the bathroom and stayed in there for at least two hours, washing myself of the blood and urine and examining the gap in my back teeth. I scrubbed desperately at my clothes. I'd die if Watari or Nancy ever found out what had happened.

Later that night, B visited me in my room.

"Hello, Lawliet," he said, smiling.

"B, I've told you many times. Please address me as Ryuzaki," I said, not looking at him. I heard B sigh exasperatedly. I knew without seeing that he was angry. I'd already built up the defence I needed against my real name. Only it wasn't my real name. I wasn't a Lawliet. I wasn't.

"I guess I'll have to find some other way to break you, Little Brother," B mused as he sauntered out of the room.

"Good luck," I called out to him, inwardly smiling to myself. He was going to need it. There was nothing more he could do to me. I wouldn't fall for the same trick twice; that was for certain.

And so life continued as normal. Nobody ever noticed the gap in my teeth- how could they? It was at the very back of my mouth, and I never opened my mouth all that wide anyway. It was just another incident to add to my already-long list. Like getting bitten by a dog, I thought. It hurts at the time, but then you leave it alone and move on.

And maybe, if you were lucky, you would forget about it.

And then one day Nancy died.

--

**I'm very sorry that I had to end it there, but it just felt right. I suppose it is a cliff-hanger of sorts, but I'm sure that many of you will have already figured out what happened to her.**

**Moving on, can I just thank everyone for reviewing this story so far, especially for your kind words referring to my predicament. I was so happy that I wrote this chapter extra-quickly for everyone!**

**I'm looking forward to writing the next chapter, as I've had the idea for it in my head for a long time. However, I realize that with every chapter I write, L gets closer to death. His time's running out, like B said. But I think when I inevitably write his death at the end of this story, I will be far sadder than when I wrote his death at the beginning. At the beginning he was just L, the World's Greatest Detective. But now he's L, the person. He's a person with a life, just like us. And though I know he will die, I'm daring to hope that he won't.**

**Which is completely ridiculous, seeing as I'm the writer.**

**Please review, as they are very inspiring. After the next chapter, I am somewhat puzzled as the what to put in to fill the gap of L's life when he is aged sixteen to about eighteen or nineteen. I'm going to have to have him hit puberty sooner or later, but other than that I'm not sure what to write. So if any of you have any good ideas, please feel free to share them with me! My only request here is no romance. I hope you understand.**


	13. The Funeral

**After Nancy's funeral, L's life changed...**

--

A Tragic Accident. That was what the police called Nancy's death. She was diabetic and suffered from migraines. Apparently, she took pills for each of them, and they conflicted in her stomach, causing a chemical reaction that formed a poison, which got into her bloodstream and subsequently caused her death.

I knew this was utter rubbish. Nancy's death wasn't an accident. It was murder. I looked into the case files and examined the evidence and checked up on the crime scene. I knew Nancy wouldn't have been so stupid as to take conflicting medication. She would check first, I was sure of it. When I did some research on her pills, I found that they would, when dissolved together, cause a poisonous reaction. But, she usually didn't take the pills together. She took one on a morning, and then two of the others at night.

When I looked over her packets of pills, I noticed something strange. Both pills came in packets of twelve, and she took, altogether, three every day. Following that pattern, she should have had ten pills of insulin for her diabetes, and eight migraine pills left. But there were nine migraine pills in the packet. And only nine of insulin, too.

And then I knew what had happened. It was so simple; I couldn't believe nobody had spotted it. Somebody had switched one of her two migraine pills with the medication for her diabetes. The prints on her medicine packets had been taken, but the only ones found had been Nancy's own. Of course.

I sent my findings to the police, but they were disregarded. I was still just a child, after all. When I tried sending them to the organization I worked with, they returned them with a polite note saying that they couldn't take my research into account as I was too deeply involved with the case on a personal level.

It wasn't fair. It never was.

We were questioned about her death, as were Nancy's family and the community that were lived in. Nobody had a bad word to say about her. She didn't have an enemy in the world. That was another reason the police doubted it was murder. Nobody had a motive for wanting Nancy dead.

But that was the thing. The killer... did have a motive. But it wasn't Nancy. It was me.

Someone wanted to get to me. They wanted to hurt me, break me, make me beg for mercy. They knew how much Nancy meant to me, and that was the sole reason for her murder. It was just another attempt on my sanity.

Nancy didn't have to die. But she did. She was dragged in to a stupid, one-sided battle for no reason other than being used as a weapon against me. In a way, it was my fault that she died. I didn't switch her pills, and I didn't poison her, but I still killed her. After all, she her life was taken because of me

But I'd be damned if I was going to feel guilty about it. Because that would be exactly what the murderer wanted.

I remember Nancy's funeral. She looked so peaceful, lying there in her mahogany coffin, her dark curls spread out behind her like a pillow. She had been dressed in her favourite blue dress, the one that hid her big curves and plump belly. It must have been Watari who requested she wear it.

I think Watari had been affected by Nancy's death more than anyone else. I knew he loved her, despite all the secrets he kept from her. Word was that they were even considering marriage. I don't think I'll ever be able to understand exactly how he felt- but it was the first and last time I ever saw him cry.

It was as the velvet curtains were drawn on Nancy's coffin, which was laid at the alter of the church, surrounded by bouquets of flowers. White roses, Nancy's favourite. The roses she tended to still grew in our garden at home. Only there was no-one to tend to them now. I looked at Watari and saw his eyes were watering. He was trying to pass it off as hay fever, but I could tell he was crying. He had composed himself by the time came to fill in Nancy's grave, but I still couldn't forget that look of anguish on his face. A look that I had helped to create.

B stood with us at the funeral, too. I could see him bowing his head and getting all teary-eyed, playing the part of the sorrow-stricken son perfectly. It made me sick. People, friends of Nancy's, kept crowing around us and offering their condolences. They looked with sympathy at Watari and B, but I could feel accusing eyes on _me_. A few members of Nancy's family were shooting me openly dirty looks, as if they resented me for not crying. It wasn't that I wasn't sad- I was. I just couldn't cry. Not with B watching.

I hid myself in my room after the funeral, switching off the light and closing the curtains and burrowing deep under my duvet. I wasn't crying, but I felt horribly empty inside. Watari didn't care. As soon as we got home he sat himself down at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and zoned out completely. B disappeared to somewhere in the house, and nobody bothered to go after him.

Our home seemed dead without Nancy.

After about three hours under the blankets, I think I fell asleep. I was brought to my senses by a knock on the door. I didn't want to talk to anyone, so I didn't call out to whoever it was. I heard the door open, and pulled back the covers and sat up.

It was B. But it wasn't B. He had changed. He was wearing Nancy's old jogging trousers that she used to wear at weekends, and a light blue top of hers, too. His black hair, even in the darkness of my room, looked brown, and had been curled to resemble Nancy's own hairstyle. He grinned wickedly at me, his lips redder than usual- it seemed he was wearing Nancy's makeup. His eyes had lost their red tint and were now an ordinary brown, but they still sparkled with the fires of chaos. I could even smell Nancy's rosewater perfume hovering about him.

The overall effect would have been funny if it weren't so sick.

B beetled over to me in the same way Nancy always did. He smiled gently at me, tilting his head to one side. "Come on, Ryuzaki, get up!" He urged. "All work and no play is bad for you. Get some fresh air into your system!"

I stared up at him, my stomach twisting painfully and making me want to vomit. "Get out of my room," I whispered.

"Now, don't you talk to me like that, young man," B scolded, mimicking Nancy's manner of speaking perfectly. He placed the palm of his hand on top of my head. "We can't let this _tragic accident_ get us down."

"It wasn't an accident. You killed her," I hissed. "You killed her, B."

"I don't know what you're talking about," B said flippantly, waving a hand. Then he leaned forward, smiling gently at me. "What's wrong, Ryuzaki? Won't you tell Nancy what's wrong?"

"You are not Nancy," I said emotionlessly. "You're just a sad little boy begging for attention. You're just a murderer. You're a murderer!"

B smirked, abandoning his little act. He moved his hand from my head and gripped my chin, forcing me to keep looking at him. "And what are you going to do about it?" He asked. "It was so easy, you know. I watched her taking those pills, no clue as to what they would do to her. You know what she said to me, right after she'd took them? 'I think maybe we should eat out tomorrow. That Indian restaurant was nice.' Only there wouldn't be a tomorrow for her, would there? Yeah, I'm a murderer. And what are _you_ going to do about it?"

My body was trembling. I was burning up inside. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to show him _exactly_ what I could do about it. B could see that my control was slipping. He grinned proudly.

"What are you going to do about it?" He whispered. "Lawliet?"

I snapped.

With a cry of fury I flew at him, knocking him to the floor. I struggled up so that I was sitting on his chest, my legs straddling either side of him, tears falling from my face and onto his. My shaking hands closed around his neck and I pressed my palms against his throat, squeezing the life out of him, strangling him like he had tried to strangle me the first day we met.

He laughed at first, delighted at the reaction he had provoked. The reaction that he had spent almost a year trying to get out of me. But then his laugh turned into a choke as my hands tightened around his throat. The smile faded from his face and his eyes grew wide as he realised that in that moment I had really lost it.

In that moment, I was really serious.

In that moment, I was really trying to kill him.

His hands, stained purple with jam, rose to grasp my wrists and he tried to prize my hands away from his neck- but I was suddenly stronger than him. Despite my size, my anger had taken me over and granted me strength. B's own strength was wavering. His lips were turning blue and a trickle of saliva slid from his mouth and his hands around my wrists were growing weak.

And suddenly a knee rose up to deliver a crucifying kick to my stomach. I double over, retching. B got splattered, and I was glad. He grabbed my wrists and hurled me away from him. I toppled back and the back of my head hit the wall with a sickening crack.

But I wasn't giving up. That was the one thing I always held on to. Once I'd made up my mind about something, I never gave up about it and saw it through until the end. And I'd made up my mind about killing B, like he had killed Nancy. Perhaps if L had been there he would have stopped me. I could feel him threatening to take control again, but I wouldn't let him. I had to do this. I had to show B what I could do.

I dragged myself to my feet, my ears ringing. B got up, too, gasping for air. Holding my head with one hand- my skull suddenly felt terribly heavy- my other hand fumbled across the chest of drawers, knocking over piles of books and work papers and my lamp. It found my sharp fountain pen and snatched it up.

Then I lunged at B, wielding the pen like a weapon, aiming for his throat, his eyes, his temple, anywhere soft that I could pierce with the metal nib and let him die. He only just managed to dodge in time. I went at him again, but he grabbed my hands and pushed me away.

Then, knowing what I was trying to do, he turned and fled the room, dashing out onto the landing. I followed him, pen in hand, ready to end it. Knowing he would be trapped upstairs, he ran to the staircase.

I couldn't let him get away. I dived. I tackled him round his waist, and he slipped. We teetered at the top of the stairs for a very brief moment, before crashing over the side. And we were both falling...

The last thing I remember was B's blood-curdling scream of terror.

And I was satisfied knowing that I had caused it.

When I woke up I was in a hospital bed, staring up at the white ceiling. The strong smell of chemicals stung my nostrils. I struggled to prop myself up with my elbows. Looking around, I saw Watari. And the police.

I got arrested for unprovoked assault. I don't know how they came to that conclusion, but I suppose they were far more inclined to believe B than they were me. Perhaps it was the pen in my hand or the red marks around B's neck or the fact that B was injured far worse than I was, but nobody believed my story. Not that I was expecting them to.

I'd fractured my collarbone and broken two of my ribs. I was lucky compared to B. He had taken the full force of the attack and broken my fall. He had a few broken ribs two, and both his legs were badly injured. The doctors said that with severe rehabilitation, he _might_ be able to walk again.

They didn't let me see him, or course. I was a violent menace, a danger to society. The police psychologists did lots of tests on me during my time at the hospital. I didn't like them. They spoke to me as if I was stupid. Eventually they declared me 'Emotionally Unstable', and they wouldn't let Watari see me either. He'd still come to the hospital every day, though. Just in case. It made me want to cry.

As soon as I was well enough to leave the hospital, I was taken straight to the police station. I wasn't even allowed to go home and change my clothes first- I had been wearing the same white shirt and faded jeans for over two months. Watari wasn't allowed to come with me then, either, despite my being only fifteen years old. I was unstable, they said. Who knows what I might do?

At the police station they filled in lots of files about me. I signed more papers than I'd ever signed before, even during my time as a detective. I didn't have a proper signature, of course. I didn't have a proper name. I just put an 'X' in the box, like those who cannot write do. I didn't read any of the papers that I signed. I was too tired, and I knew it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference whether I signed them or not.

After that they took me to a temporary holding centre. Or, to put it plainly, a prison. They said I was to stay there until my trial, which would be in a week's time. They did lots of tests on me before they let me in. They took samples of my blood and saliva and registered my fingerprints on their database. Then they took me to a small room with no windows and told me to strip naked.

Being a detective, I knew the law system and what it involved, so I was expecting it. But I still shook my head, out of automatic reaction.

"Take them off, or we'll have to take them off for you," said one officer who was there with me.

"I don't want to," I whispered.

So they pinned me down and took my clothes off themselves. I had to stand there in that freezing little room, stark naked and shivering, while they checked me all over. I couldn't bear it. I hated being without my clothes. It made me feel so vulnerable, especially with me being so skinny and small.

They even checked in the places that were embarrassing for me. I had to lean over a desk and position my legs apart so that they could see everything. Then, to my horror, I felt my buttocks being spread wide apart. I hid my face in my hands and refused to make eye contact with anyone for the rest of the day.

My trial went on for over a month. Watari made several appeals for bail, but none were accepted, and I had to sit in the defendant's chair more times than any child should ever have to. I felt so tiny and helpless, hunched up there at the mercy of the court. Perhaps that worked to my advantage.

They found me innocent. My lawyer claimed that I was 'not sound of mind' at the time, having just lost my mother. He went into my past, calling it 'troubled', and that I was 'mentally scarred'. He also drew attention to the bruises and wounds on my body, which indicated that B fought back. He might even have started the fight.

Most of the jury sympathized. I played up to this for all I was worth. I curled up to make myself look even smaller, spoke quietly and even made sure to cry from time to time. It was clear, to them, that I was just a misguided little boy tragically affected by the death of his mother figure.

But though I was found innocent of the charge of assault, another matter arose. That of my custody. They wanted to put me back into care. I didn't want that. I wanted to stay with Watari. I kept saying it over and over again, but I don't think anyone really listened. Nobody ever listened to _me._

Watari made an appeal. He said that I just lost my mother, and the last thing I needed was to lose my father as well. If anything, that would only make me worse. He said I needed love and support above anything else, and I would not get that from being separated from my family. The courts protested fiercely. They said doing so would be putting B's life at risk. So Watari told them he would put B into care.

He told them that B had always been the more 'normal' of the two of us. He was stable. He could easily adjust to life in a Children's Home. It didn't look like we were going to win, but then the press got involved.

For weeks I had cameras flashing in my eyes and tabloid photographers telling me to 'look more upset' or 'look more frustrated'. I was portrayed as this tragic figure, staring blankly into the camera with my huge black eyes, never once smiling, always looking very melancholic indeed. They turned me into the sort of child that people wanted to hug and take care of. I was an upsetting example of a life gone wrong.

I was suddenly famous. People stopped me on the street to ask for autographs. Even children stared at me. I was in the headlines constantly, articles screaming out completely made-up stories about me, which ranged from 'Ryuzaki's Real Mother Comes Forward' to 'Stress Threatens to Break Wammy Family Apart'.

It was ridiculous. _But it worked._ They let me stay with Watari, an B was put into care. Once the case had closed, the headlines went into a slow decline and the camera flashes faded away. And then we started again from the beginning, just Watari and me.

But another problem arose not long after I'd returned home.

I lost my right to investigate cases. To put it plainly, I lost my job.

--

**I suppose I could have gone on for a bit longer here, but I decided not to for the sole purpose that I didn't want the chapter to be too long.**

**I'm really looking forward to writing the next chapter, which is odd as I have almost no idea what it will include! The reason that L lost his job will be explained, but don't worry, he'll get another soon enough. To be truthful, the only reason I'm impatient to write the next chapter is that in it L will turn sixteen, and I get to (finally!) put him through puberty.**

**As usual, please read and review, and if you have any suggestions as to what I should put L through during his later teens, I would be very grateful!**

**Thank you.**


	14. More Changes

**At sixteen, L's body started catching up with his head...**

--

I couldn't blame them for firing me. I was still constantly in and out of the headlines, and with the press so hungry for information, it was only a matter of time before somebody found out about my working as a detective, and an illegal one at that. It was dangerous for the company. They would be constantly in the public eye, their reputation soiled by the fact that they had employed an unqualified, fifteen-year-old child, and one arrested on suspicion of physical assault, no less.

They had to let me go, for the good of all who worked there.

I tried not to mind too much. I had long learned how to deal with abandonment, so their letting me go didn't bother me greatly. I wasn't one to wallow in self-pity. I knew that no matter how many times life knocked me down; I would get back up again. I had L, and that was all I needed.

Watari helped me get back on my feet. All we had was each other, now that Nancy was dead and B had moved away. He pulled a lot of strings and paid a lot of money, and eventually managed to enrol me in a university where I could take the bar exam and become a detective legally. I entered late. I had only two months to prepare before the final exam, but that was more than enough time.

The lecturers and students regarded me with a bewildered silence, and I got enough funny looks to last me a lifetime throughout those months. I suppose I did look terribly

out of place, a prepubescent teenager sat taking the bar exam alongside fully-grown men and women over two feet taller than me.

I passed, of course. The only ones who weren't surprised by the result were Watari and me.

I suppose losing my first job did me good, in the long run. Now, I could carry out my investigations legally.

A started working for a local force at the centre of Winchester. Watari didn't mind driving me there every day. I was placed on the lowest rung of the ladder thanks to my age. At first, my co-workers would tiptoe round me and walk away briskly whenever I passed by. I think, in a strange way, they were a little intimidated by me. I was an odd-looking creature, and my C.V. had probably told them enough about me to make them nervous.

I worked hard. I participated in every little case they offered me, no matter how dirty or petty or simple. I knew I was at the bottom, and it was work like that that would push me to the top.

By the time I was fifteen-and-a-half years old I was promoted to D.C., and by sixteen, to D.C.I.- Detective Chief Inspector- with my own team following my every order. It must have been a world record.

My life was a whirlwind. Despite Winchester having a relatively low crime rate, we still received more cases than imagined, though most were laughably simple and required little to no brain power to solve. That did get on my nerves just a little bit, but I didn't let it bother me. I knew I had to bide my time.

To be honest, it wasn't my work that made my life at sixteen so troublesome. It was something else.

My body started to change.

After so many years of being the shortest and the smallest and the skinniest I had somehow subconsciously come to believe that I would stay that way forever, so the sudden changes that were popping up all over me gave me cause for concern.

The main thing I noticed was that I was getting taller. And not gradually, either. After postponing puberty for so long, it seemed that it was finally tired of waiting and I was outgrowing clothes faster than Watari could buy them.

It was a little unnerving, being so suddenly far away from the ground. I wasn't short any more. In fact, I was more on the _tall_ side. I didn't like having to look down at people when they talked to me. I was too used to looking _up_, so it made my neck hurt. I was taller than all the women I worked with, and most of the men. I didn't like that at all. It made me feel like I stuck out too much. I already walked with my head bowed, so I exaggerated it and walked with my back bent over as well. I don't know why, really. I could have gotten used to being tall. But at the time I was accustomed to being _short,_ and after walking in that way for a time something in my back clicked and it hurt to stand up properly.

My voice changed, too. It came to the point where I didn't know what I was going to sound like when I opened my mouth. Sometimes my voice would crack halfway through a sentence and I would clamp my hands to my throat in horror.

The only thing about me that didn't change was my weight. If anything, I got even thinner. I grew _up,_ but I didn't grow _out_- though I had more muscle than before. My cheeks lost their baby fat, making my face look even more hollow, and my ribs, hips, shoulder blades and collarbone jutted out from my body in a most unattractive way. Apparently, all the calories I ate didn't make any difference to my weight. Maybe my brain used them all up. Ha. Ha. Ha.

My height wasn't the only thing about my body that changed. I got more hair in different places, which proved to be nothing but a hindrance. It itched where it grew. Other parts of me grew, too. Parts that made me feel uncomfortable to acknowledge.

I was sixteen years old, but had no sexual experience. All I knew of sex and puberty came from one one-hour lesson I had to sit through at St. Benedict's when I was twelve. It wasn't very informative, either, just giving us the bare minimum of knowledge. And, I admit, I was too embarrassed to ask anyone for more information or look things up in the library. I didn't know what was normal and what wasn't.

Parts of my body moved on their own, and I often felt an overwhelming urge to... _touch_ places that I knew I shouldn't. It was dirty. It made me _feel_ dirty. I would never give in to it.

But still, once or twice I woke up in the night to discover that a certain part of me was as hard as my thumb, or even that my bed was wet with something strange. I didn't like that part of growing up, not at all.

It didn't stop its unnatural behaviour when I was in public. I would have to make regular restroom breaks at work so I could check myself and make sure that nothing had changed. I could take it if anything were to happen in front of my colleagues.

It was almost ironic. I had never seen my body as anything more than a vessel for my mind, and yet it was having such a huge effect on everything I did. It was as if I'd spent my whole life learning to control one machine, and now suddenly I was thrust into another with no warning, and my mind couldn't take it over. I'd never liked my tiny, undeveloped body, but now I _missed_ it. I wanted to be a child again. Being a man was so...

It was so...

So...

_Embarrassing!_

I was loathe to admit it, but it was so embarrassing I couldn't stand it. There were some days that I just wanted to hide under my bed and never come out again. It was not in my nature to blush, but I could constantly feel the shame burning my face, despite remaining deathly pale. It felt as if the whole world was watching me, horribly aware of everything that was happening to me. It was too embarrassing. Just _too embarrassing._

But I never talked about it, of course. There were some things that you couldn't discuss with anybody.

Instead I kept my head down and buried myself in my work. I grew my hair down to my shoulders so that nobody would notice if I got a spot or two across my forehead or the back of my neck, and I would only wear clothes that were at least three sizes too big, just in case. My jeans kept slipping off my bony hips, but I refused to wear a belt and masked the fact that I had to hold them up by permanently having my hands in my pockets.

By the time I was seventeen I had made enough money to leave Winchester and set up my own company. I'd know for a long time that I was aiming high, right at the top. And the top was dangerous. I knew I had to keep my identity a secret. I created three aliases: L, Eraldo Coil and Danuve. L was my main identity, as it was the name that I had from birth, so I located him in London, the Capital. Danuve, I put in Wales, which might seem rather odd considering Wales' low human population (but very high _sheep_ population), but I felt it would give me sufficient cover. Eraldo Coil I located, with help from Watari, across the sea in Italy. I couldn't have all three too close together.

And so, in 1996 at the age of seventeen, I left home. Watari took advantage of my absence right away. After the incident with B, he grew wary of allowing me to live and communicate directly with my successors. Now that I was gone, he could settle down to creating an heir for me. Just before I left, he hired a new teacher, an older fellow by the name of Roger. He wasn't fond of me. I don't think he was fond of children in general, which lead to the question of why he became a teacher in the first place.

After Roger's arrival, I was expecting another child to arrive at Wammy's house and take my place. And sure enough, on the very morning that I was due to leave for London, several different cars drove up at our house and delivered orphans to our doorstep like packages.

There were two young boys aged about ten. I didn't know their names then and didn't particularly care, but they would later become known as X and Z. There was one smaller boy with ginger hair who wouldn't come forward and introduce himself. He kept blushing and trying to hide behind his hands. His name was... what was his name again? All I knew was his alias- A. There was a chatty little girl called Linda who wore her hair in pigtails and held a teddy bear- but could work out the answer to eighteen-and-a-half multiplied by fifty-two-point-one-nine-three in little over three seconds.

And there was one little boy, about five years old with white hair and big, dark, owl-like eyes. He stood very stiffly and held a book- The H.M.S. Surprise- in his hands. He made no attempt to talk to the other children, and he didn't seem like he was bothered about their lack of attention, either. His name was Nate. Nate River.

But when I looked at him, I didn't see Nate.

I saw myself.

I didn't stick around to meet them personally. Watari just pointed me out to them and explained who I was and that was it. None of the children seemed to care. They didn't seem motivated at all by the prospect of succeeding me.

I said a quick goodbye to Watari, then got into the taxi he had ordered me and left without another word. I think a part of me sort of wanted to hug him- but I didn't. And I also think that another part of me wanted to hit him and scream at him for what he turned me in to- but I didn't do that, either. Some things were better left undone.

After another half-year, I set up another two aliases. One in Japan, were I was Ryuzaki. At least I could finally feel that my name was _normal_ there. And a female alias in Russia, by the name of Alma Voikevich.

It was only because it was a Russian name, you must understand. In Russia, Alma Voikevich was legally still alive, which was what made it so easy to use her name. It didn't mean anything.

I had forgotten Mummy years ago.

It was quite simple, keeping track of my other selves. I'd been playing a role all my life, what difference would a few more make?

I chose my own cases. I had learned long ago that you couldn't take any prisoners in this business. I would just phone the head and inform them that I was taking over their case, no questions asked. I didn't feel at all bad about it. I could do the job twice as quickly and three times more effectively, at least. I was surprised that more people didn't object, though. But then, I was a growing phenomenon in the detective world. It seemed L, Eraldo and Denuve were becoming quite famous.

I selected my team members carefully. For each alias I had, I also had a tight-knit team of five or six subordinates. I would check over police files and C.V.s, and keep a close eye on my candidates for at least two months before approaching them about a job. I would use a phone that wasn't connected to the national network and a voice-translator to contact them, just in case they said no. I couldn't have them finding out my identity. And even if they agreed to work for me, they would have to do so for a few months before I would meet them in person.

And I never, ever told anyone my real name.

I didn't _have_ a real name.

And that was okay with me.

--

**I'll end this chapter here, even though I'm not really satisfied with how it finished off. I didn't want to drag it out and bore you. I don't know about you, but I prefer reading (and writing) about L's personal life, rather than his work life. But I know it is necessary for the story, as work is such a large part of L's life.**

**I forgot to mention this last chapter, but I drew a picture to go along with it! I felt that the image of L trying to kill B was quite powerful and I wanted to capture in on paper. So, here it is:**

**http://lilacbird(DOT)deviantart(DOT)com/art/L-B-The-Art-of-Strangulation-125201935**

**Just replace the '(DOT)' with a '.'**

**Please read and review as usual, for they are very helpful in assisting my improvement! I plan to introduce Mello in the next chapter, but other than that I'm a little stuck... **


	15. Mihael

**L saw himself in both Near and Mello...**

--

I was eighteen years old and living in London, the heart of the whole of the U.K. I should have been on top of the world. Any other teenager would. But I wasn't. I still wanted more. I had to climb higher and prove to everyone that... that... I wasn't sure what I wanted to prove. But the idea of the little boy who was abandoned in a shopping cart and spent the whole of his life being thrown in and out of Care rising to become someone so powerful... It held a certain charm to me. I'd spent the whole of my life being helpless and ignored. And now I wanted power. Because then people would have to listen to me, whether they wanted to or not.

I was already well on my way. I had contacts with the heads of the International Police, and almost the whole police force had heard of at least one of my aliases. I was at the point where I could freely pick and choose who I wanted to work for me. After all, they were obliged to agree to my request.

I only chose the best. But they were indifferent to me. Wherever there was one, there would be hundreds more. No, I was looking for someone special. I was looking for Christopher Juniper.

And I found him. He had worked hard to continue his detective work after I'd left him, and had been promoted to D.C.I, with his own team to look up to him. He had married a woman called Sarah Misham, and they had one baby daughter, Rose. He had a life. He was happy.

I couldn't take that away from him.

So I didn't make contact with him, and he remained blissfully unaware of my success whilst I worked on my cases, taking at least ten or fifteen at a time.

I was currently residing in a small apartment about tem miles from where I worked. It was nothing fancy, just another cheap area of residence for students who couldn't afford a big place. It consisted of a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, and that was it. By this time I was earning enough to have bought a house, but I knew I had to keep my head down and not draw attention to myself. The landlord thought that I was just another university student.

I hadn't gone back to Winchester or even talked with Watari for over a year, but one day I received an unexpected phone call telling me to return right away. Apparently, somebody was demanding to see me, and they had no choice but to oblige.

Roger made it sound like they had been infiltrated by terrorists, but to my surprise the feared attacker turned out to be no more than a seven year old boy.

I didn't see Watari the time that I was there. Roger met me at the door and practically dragged my upstairs right away, babbling incessantly about 'disgraceful behaviour'. He led me to a room from which a lot of screaming and banging could be heard. I raised my eyebrows when I saw him unlocking the door.

"You locked him in?"

"You'll see why I had to."

The door opened to reveal what was once a fairly orderly room. Only now it looked like it had been blitzed. Books had been tore off the bookshelves and hurled around the room. The curtains had been ripped from their rail. Drawers had been wrenched open and their contents scattered over the floor. The window had been smashed. The floor was layered with shattered glass from what was once a light bulb; and the carpet had been torn up from its roots in the corner. The wallpaper had been torn, and the walls bore many dirty marks, presumably from being kicked.

And in the middle of the chaos was a young boy with blonde hair, wild from his rampage, and bright eyes glinting with fury. He was currently sat on the remains of a bed. The mattress had been pulled onto the floor and the duvet hung half-out of the window, and the boy was shredding out the fluffy insides of the pillow. Feathers clung to his hair and at the side of his mouth.

"Hello," I said.

The boy glared at me. "Are you L?" He asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I am L."

He flew at me, fists flailing, clawing desperately at my face, my throat, my eyes and shrieking madly. I stood there, unaffected, consenting the attack. It was Roger who intervened and pulled him back.

"Let me go. Let me go!" the boy screamed, struggling viciously, aiming his attacks at Roger now. "It's his fault!" He turned on me. "It's your fault I'm here. You stupid son of a bitch!"

He thrust himself away from Roger and ran into the corner, his back to us. "I want my dad, I want my dad..."

"His name is Mihael Keehl. His father passed away recently," Roger told me. I noticed that he said it loud enough for the boy to hear. "House fire. He had nowhere to stay. Watari saw him on the news and did some tests and so here he is, troublesome as ever."

"I see," I said, nodding. "Roger, could you leave the room for a moment, please." I didn't state it as a question, but as an order, and Roger understood. He left, closing the door behind him.

Mihael and I stood in silence for a few seconds.

Then, "Why did he have to die? The bastard. Why did he have to die...?" Mihael began to sniffle. He spun around suddenly. There were tears in his eyes, but he tried to hide them through his anger. "It's not fair. I want to go home. But some old geezer drags me here to work for some faceless piece of shit! That's you, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said calmly. "That's me."

The boy 'hmph'-ed and stuck his nose in the air. "You don't _look_ all that special," he muttered. "I thought you'd be taller. You're just a kid, like me."

"I suppose you could say that."

Mihael glared at me, his eyes burning. Then suddenly the anger faded from his expression and his face crumpled, making him look his age.

"I want my daddy," he whispered, and burst into tears.

And I froze. My mind went white and suddenly everything came flooding back to me in a tidal wave of emotion.

"_I want Mummy..."_

Mihael leaned against the wall and sank to the floor. He hugged his knees to his chest and howled, tears pouring down his cheeks, his nose running. He was screaming "I want my daddy" over and over again.

It made me want to cry too.

I wandered over to where he sat and squatted down next to him in my strange, primitive crouch. I let him cry for a while. It sounded like he needed it. Then I hesitantly raised one spidery hand and touched the top of Mihael's blond head. He swatted my hand away furiously. He curled his tiny hands into fist and began to hit me, though there was no strength behind his punches.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid..." He accented every word with another punch to my chest. Eventually he gave up pummelling me and collapsed against me, exhausted. I tensed for a moment. How long had it been since I had experienced human contact? But then I felt myself beginning to relax, too. Mihael and I, we were the same. He was a little boy crying for the one person who had ever loved him- and so was I.

Mihael felt so small and vulnerable against me. Had I been like that? I remembered the photographs of me, curled up in the corner, my eyes shut tight, my hands over my ears, my body pressed against the wall, trying to block out the huge, frightening world around me.

I suddenly felt immensely protective of the child crying into my chest. I wrapped my arms around him, as if trying to shield him from the rest of the world. And subconsciously I began to sing, in my dull, droning voice.

"Those were the days, my friend; we thought they'd never end. We thought we'd sing dance forever and a day. We'd live the life we chose..."

Mihael sniffed. "You're a _shit_ singer, you know that?"

I smiled. "Not until just now. I haven't ever tried before." I paused. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, Mihael."

He pulled away and looked at me, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand and taking a few deep breaths. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then said, "No, its okay. I'm not stupid. I know my house got burned down. So I might as well stay here." He forced a smile. "You're a detective, right? That's what the old guy told me. Well, just so you know, I'll work hard and get even better than you! Definitely."

I sighed sadly. That was what I was afraid of. He was the competitive sort; there was no doubt about it. I was tempted to talk to Watari and have him transferred to a different orphanage, one where he could be adopted by a loving family and grow up and live his own life however he pleased. But of course, I didn't. I didn't want to see Watari. I don't know why.

So I left, just an hour after I'd arrived. I didn't want to stay in that house any longer than I had to. It held too many memories that I wanted to forget.

I called for a taxi to the train station, and it arrived half an hour later. I didn't tell anyone I was leaving, and there was nobody to see me go- except for a white blur and a pair of large, dark eyes that watched me intently from the window.

I told the taxi driver to keep the change. I just wanted to get back to London as quickly as possible.

When I got back to my apartment it was already past ten at night. I decided to go to bed early.

And I didn't get a wink of sleep that night.

--

**This chapter was shorter than the previous ones, but it feels right. I don't want to extend it into the next chapter's events, because it would reduce the importance of Mello's introduction.**

**I wanted to show in this chapter how L sees himself in both Near and Mello. I had him try to convince Mello to leave Wammy's because he wants him to have the life he never had. See, he does have a heart!**

**In the next chapter L will be nineteen, and there will most likely be some M-rated stuff in there. It's going to be painful to write, but I still want to do it.**

**Please review if you have the time, and thank you!**


	16. The London Tube

**L was just in the wrong place at the wrong time...**

--

My workplace was a good few miles from my apartment. I didn't have a driver's licence, let alone a car, and with the London roads being so clogged up with traffic anyway, I, like the vast majority of London's working class, took the tube train.

I didn't particularly like the Tube. It was crowded and loud, and the air tasted stale in my lungs. It was full of busy people who wouldn't think twice about trampling over you if you happened to fall. There were suspicious patches scattered across the ground, and the scent of alcohol or urine frequently hung in the air.

Thankfully, I only had to board one train from my apartment to my office. Counting the time that the train spent stopping at various stations, it took me about twenty minutes to get there, with the average time being twenty-three minutes and fifty-four seconds. I could have gone into milliseconds, but that made things a little tedious for me.

I had just turned nineteen when it happened.

It was just an average morning. To be precise, it was November the sixth, on a Friday, and it was just past eight o'clock. I was running a few minutes later than usual, but it would not hinder my work in the slightest. I was on the Tube on my way to work. The carriage was even more crowded than usual, and we were crushed together like a tin of sardines. There was little chance of a seat, but that didn't matter to me. I was content with standing, using a handhold attacked to the roof of the carriage to keep myself steady.

I was about ten minutes into my journey when I felt something strange. Someone was touching me, their hands gripping my jutting hips. My eyes darted around for a moment, but I didn't panic. There was never any need to panic.

I couldn't see, through the dim half-lit carriage, the person whose hands had set on me. I figured they were behind me, but so were about two hundred other people. All I could see was the hands. They were rough and strong, and I knew they were a man's. He wore a wedding ring on his left ring finger.

I held my breath as the hands began to move over me. Calloused fingers rubbed my hips and slid up my shirt to stroke along the skin at my waist. I held my breath. I only had ten minutes until my stop.

The hands slid down to grope over my thighs and came to rest against my rear, where they squeezed tightly. My eyes widened, but I refused to gasp or squeak.

I stood completely still as this nameless, faceless person touched my body. I didn't know what to do. I just knew I couldn't give in to it. So I pretended it wasn't happening. It was all I could do.

Strong arms snaked around my waist and I was pulled back against my will. I tensed as I felt my back press against the body of the man whose hands were flush against my skin. I felt hot breath tickling the back of my neck, making my hairs stand on end and goose bumps rise on my skin. But I didn't pull away. I wouldn't give him a reaction.

I heard a deep, gravelly voice whisper "Squishy" in amusement.

Ad I felt my face flame.

I walked out of the carriage at my stop, as usual. I kept my face carefully blank, as usual. I handled my cases, as usual. And I didn't tell anyone about it.

Instead I pushed it to the back of my mind. The one troublesome thing about having such a high intellect as I was that you could never forget anything. I could ignore it and train myself to _think_ I'd forgotten, but I always knew and it was always there.

But it was okay. I knew, though sexual assault was less common than it used to be, that I was not alone it was had happened to me. Many a time in my youth I'd handled cases where women had been raped, beaten or tortured. In comparison, I supposed I was lucky.

I convinced myself that it was likely to be a one-time thing. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was... like getting bitten by a dog. You had to move on.

But still, on the morning of the following Monday, about ten minutes into the tube ride to work, I felt rough hands sliding up my shirt and sharp fingers pinched both my nipples. Hard. I couldn't stop a gasp escaping my mouth.

I heard a small, breathy laugh behind me. My reaction had obviously sparked some amusement.

"Sensitive, Squishy?" A voice close to me whispered. I could feel his lips moving against my ear, and I had to repress a shiver.

He began to toy with my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, tugging and tweaking. I bit down hard on my lip, resisting the urge to squirm away. I cursed myself as I felt my nipples hardening under his touch. I couldn't react. I couldn't let myself react...

I hated the feel of his hands on my skin. I could feel the coldness of the wedding ring he wore against me. That made me feel ever-so-slightly guilty for some reason. Despite the fact that this was happening completely against my will, the man assaulting me had a wife. Maybe children. And here he was, fingering the body of a teenage boy. It made me sick.

But I still walked out of the carriage at my stop, as usual. I still kept my face carefully blank, as usual. I still handled my cases, as usual. And I still didn't tell anyone about it.

And it became routine for me. Every weekday morning I would board my train and find myself waiting for the time when I would be touched, not wanting it to come because it felt so wrong, but at the same time wanting it to happen just so I could get it over with.

And every weekday, about ten minutes into my journey, I would feel a squeeze on my backside or inner thighs, or a stroke up my shirt or a hand press up between my legs. And I would retreat into the very corners of my mind, trying to force myself to ignore it.

I began to learn more about my attacker, too- whom I had found myself referring to as 'The Ring Finger', or just 'The Ring'. That was always the thing I noticed first. The coldness of that gold wedding ring.

I figured out from the calluses on his hands that he was likely have once worked outdoors and have a job that involved a lot of manual labour, such as a builder. However, from what I saw of his clothes- basically, his sleeves- I knew he was wearing a smart suit, which suggested that he now worked in business. I also knew that his stop was after mine. There was a large office building in the process of construction about a mile away from my workplace. It seemed about seventy percent likely that he was part of the management there.

I could also tell that he was likely to be quite a bit older than myself. Not only were those who targeted people in more public places likely to be older men, but the fact that he had had at least two different jobs in his time told me he was probably in his forties, perhaps early fifties.

Of course, I already knew that he was married.

I could also decipher a lot about his personal life as well as his work life just from how he touched me. Of course, this was just me guessing, but depending on how well things were going at home, he treated me differently.

On the days where his suit was clean and neatly ironed, and it was obvious he'd had an easy, organised morning, he was gentle with me. Sometimes all the journey would include was a single finger stroking up my inner thigh or the side of my neck.

But on the days where his clothes were bedraggled and his nails were bitten and he smelled of stale coffee, he would be much, much rougher with me. Some evenings when I was showering, I'd look down to find that my buttocks and thighs were mottled purple and blue with bruises.

I hated it. But I didn't know what to do. I'd handled cases like these before. Even if I said anything, it would just be my word against his. He was a construction manager (probably) with a wife, and possibly children. And I was an illegal immigrant with a criminal record for unprovoked assault. There was no question who, out of the two of us, people were likely to believe. I couldn't use my power to help myself. If I did, then my identity would be revealed.

Plus there was another problem. I knew that when men were touched by other men, it wasn't something they were likely to share with anybody. It would be understandable if it was a woman being assaulted, because they were 'weaker', and men were expected to protect them. But when it happened to a male, it was somehow twisted around to put the victim in a negative light. We were expected to deal with things alone.

And that was just what I was doing. I was. I could deal with it, because I had L, and L could deal with anything. Ever since the case with B, when I had totally lost it, L had regained his grip on me and said fiercely that he was never letting me go again. Look what happened when he left me alone.

And I willingly submitted to his control.

I thought that if I ignored The Ring, he would go away. But he didn't go away. And he kept touching me every day. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. And still, he didn't go away. I was his toy, his plaything, his 'Squishy'. I didn't know why he chose me, but I think it was for the sole reason that I was _there._ It was on a whim that he decided to make my body his own personal toy. It was so humiliating.

Even more humiliating was the fact that though _I_ didn't react, my body _did._ My adulthood had caused me a lot of trouble since it developed, and this was the worst. Despite the fact that I had always lived in my mind and not my body, the way The Ring's touch affected me you wouldn't think so.

My breathing would become shallow and irregular. My heart began to eat faster and faster, until I could barely hear the roar of the train over the blood pounding through me, screaming in my ears. Beads of sweat would break out on my forehead and my face would become flushed as my body began to burn up from the inside out. And I would feel a throbbing between my legs and the crotch of my jeans would tent up embarrassingly, making me grateful that my shirt was so long as to cover it.

It wasn't my fault, I told myself. I had never been touched before. Not even by myself. The fact that my body was reacting so quickly was because this was an entirely new experience to it. But it was still shameful. The fact that my body would lose control under the hands of some twisted _pervert_ was almost too much for my head to bear.

"You're a virgin," The Ring whispered in my ear one day. And despite my lack of knowledge on the subject, I somehow knew that it was my body that was giving me away.

I'll admit it. I was ashamed. I couldn't tell anybody about it because, beside the fact that it would do me no good, it would have been embarrassing. It would have been like admitting that I needed help. And then, of course, the questions would start, asking me just what he did and how long it had been going on for... What would I say then? If I told the truth, that it had been happening for nearly three months, it would be twice as humiliating. People would think that I didn't talk about it because I was scared.

I wasn't scared. I didn't need help. I wasn't a little boy any more. I was fine.

I refused to switch the train that I took each morning. I didn't want to give The Ring the satisfaction of thinking that he'd scared me away. But I did start eating less. Just because so many sweets were bad for my health, I told myself. If I happened to lose enough weight so that there would be nothing left on me to squeeze, then that was just a pleasant coincidence. And I wore different clothes every day, and had my hair, which was beginning to trail down my back by now, cut short. I just wanted a change. It wasn't that I was trying to hide from anyone.

The Ring Finger still found me anyway. Sometimes he would be a few minutes late, but he always found me.

"Tsk, tsk, naughty Squishy. Trying to get away from me," he hissed in my ear, and his hand snaked down between my legs and gripped my length so hard that I almost yelped.

As time went on, he began to become more adventurous in the games he played with me. Once, one evening after work, his hands undid the button at the top of my jeans and whipped the zipper down and before I knew it I had been stripped naked from the waist down.

I stood there, my heart hammering and my stomach turning somersaults, wondering what to do. I couldn't pull my underwear and jeans up again, because then I would be acknowledging The Ring's presence. But if anyone noticed, then I would end up with another charge, this time for indecent exposure.

It wasn't fair. I couldn't win. At that moment I hated myself for not stopping the whole charade as soon as it began. But I knew that if I could turn back time, I wouldn't do a thing differently. It was always like this. My pride was always my downfall.

The train came to a halt at a station- only two stations away from my stop- and the stream of people began to spill out of the automatic doors. I began to breathe faster and faster. If more people got out than in, then somebody was bound to notice my bareness. I decided that no matter how humiliating it was giving in to The Ring, it would be even more humiliating to be seen half-naked by over a hundred people.

I bent down to pick up my clothes.

And suddenly a felt something plunge deep inside me from behind. I gasped. My hands flew up to cover my mouth and muffle the scream that had risen inside of me. What... What did he put in? It felt so cold...

I felt the judder of the engine and I knew the train had set off again. Only seven minutes until my stop. I could hold on till then.

Shakily, I straightened myself up as much as I could- which was difficult- and raised one trembling arm to grasp the handhold which was attached to the roof of the carriage. Then whatever was inside of me curled suddenly, before straightening out again. I could feel it.

_Don't do that!_

I could feel the hand that was resting on my bare behind grip me slightly in satisfaction. It was then that my mind snapped back into place from its shock and I realised that he'd put his finger into me.

_Take it out... I don't want this... Take it out..._

My mouth opened wide to gasp as I felt another finger press against my entrance, but I quickly bit down on my hand to stop it. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly and ground my teeth together as I felt the new finger working its way up inside me to join it's brother. I couldn't cry out. Even if it killed me, I couldn't cry out.

And then I felt a third finger- the _ring_ finger, poking its way in.

_No, don't, it already hurts so much. Please, don't..._

He didn't ease it in slowly this time. He forced it in so roughly that I almost screamed. It hurt. It hurt more than any physical pain I'd ever experienced, and that was saying something. My legs gave way fully beneath me as The Ring spread his fingers out inside me, stretching me beyond my limit, and I was left hanging helplessly by one hand, the hand that held the bar on the ceiling.

I couldn't stop myself whimpering as I felt him add a _fourth_ finger. I heard him chuckle as he withdrew them slightly then forcefully pushed them back in, making me choke on the saliva that was filling my mouth and blocking my throat. I could feel his wedding ring pressing against my hole.

_Please, please, stop._

He thrust them into me again. I didn't even have the strength left to cry out.

_Please... I'm begging you..._

I was going to faint. I could feel my head growing light and wave after wave of nausea washed over me. My hearing was fading, and so was my vision. The rush of the London crowds muffled and my eyes rolled back in my head. I was seeing spots in front of my eyes.

Somehow I had managed to hang onto the handhold all this time, but I was slipping now. I was vaguely aware of the fact that I was going to fall. I could still feel the fingers inside of me, but they had stopped moving, which provided me with a small sense of relief. I could feel something warm and wet trickling down my legs. I think it was blood.

"Relax," The Ring told me, his teeth nipping at my ear. I winced. "I can't take them out if you don't relax. You're clamping down too hard."

I bit down on my hand again as he ripped his fingers out of me. My body jerked, and a trickle of saliva escaped my mouth and dripped from my chin. Then my jeans were picked up from around my ankles and fastened securely around my waist again. My whole body was shaking violently and I couldn't stop it, but I did my best to get my feet back on the ground again.

I stumbled forward on uneasy legs as the train screeched to a stop at my station. A hand suddenly reached around to cup my face and squeeze my cheeks together, making my eyes water.

"See you tomorrow, Squishy."

I practically fell off the tube and onto the platform. I had to lean against the wall the steady myself and wait for my head to stop spinning before I could move again. Then I set off for the stairs that lead to the open air. It hurt to walk. I could still feel The Ring Finger inside of me.

I staggered out onto the street. I bent over the side of the road, breathless, my hands on my knees for support. And then I emptied to content of my stomach all over the side of the road.

I stood there, doubled over and gasping for air and vomiting again and again, until there was nothing left in my stomach to bring up. But my body still wanted to be sick and I kept retching despite myself, making my belly cramp in on itself painfully.

People veered around me as they passed by. I could see people crossing the road to avoid me. One little girl was pointing and saying something- but my ears were ringing and I couldn't hear her. Then her mother took her by the hand and dragged her away, hissing "Stay away from him."

Nobody stopped to help, or even ask if I was okay.

That evening I packed my bags and left my apartment. I booked into a hotel a few miles away, from where I called the team I had in London and told them to gather their things and go back to their old jobs. Then I called up the people who owned the office we rented for out work and told them that we would no longer require their services.

And then I set about creating a new work force on the other side of London. I just wanted a change, you must understand. It had nothing to do with anything. The fact that... _that_ happened just a little while before had no effect on the matter. I had been planning to change my place of work for a while now. Staying in one place for too long could put me in danger. I just wanted a change. I just wanted... I just...

It was midnight by the time I'd worked out my new task force, but I wasn't tired. I set my papers down and stood up. I looked blankly around the room. I wandered over to the kitchen area and crouched down to open the small fridge. It was stocked full of all different colourful beverages, most of them alcoholic.

I'd never so much as sniffed a drop of alcohol before. When I was working in Criminal Affairs, the rest of the team had brought in a few bottles of lager at Christmas and drank themselves stupid. They offered me some, even though I was underage. I refused. You wouldn't catch me drinking anything that was bound to reduce my thinking capacity. Not in a million years.

But my hand reached out without me noticing and plucked a single, small bottle from the rack. I saw the light behind it flash. Well, I thought, I might as well drink it now. I was going to be charged for it anyway.

I found the bottle-opener in the drawer and after a few tries I managed to crack the thing open. I wrinkled my nose at the unappetizing scent. Gingerly I raised the bottle to my lips and took a single small sip.

I almost spat it out, but forced myself to swallow. Then I bent over the sink and turned on the tap, washing my mouth out thoroughly. I had never tasted anything more disgusting in my life. It was bitter and fizzy and burned all the way down my throat. Disgusting.

I sighed and leaned back against the wall. My eyes wandered back to the bottle that stood open on the counter. It would be wrong to waste it. Nancy always said we shouldn't waste things. So I picked it up and took another sip. And another, and another.

And by the time I'd finished the whole bottle I found that it didn't taste quite so bad.

I left the open bottle on the counter and shuffled over to my bed, sitting down carefully on the clean sheets- but even this caused me to gasp and wince in pain. My abdomen still ached terribly. I slowly lowered myself into a laying position on the bed, not even bothering to change out of my day clothes, though my jeans were stained with blood. My eyelids got very heavy very quickly.

And in less than a minute I fell into a surprisingly deep sleep.

--

**This was quite a difficult chapter for me to write. Not only did I build up your expectations, as it is my first M-rated chapter, but I was dealing with a subject that is very personal to me, which made it more painful to write. I, like many, many people, have encountered some form of sexual harassment, and it is a very emotionally crippling experience. This might cause L to make a few mistakes later on!**

**I don't know if any of you have noticed- maybe the intense content of this chapter distracted you from it, I don't know- but it has changed from 'L' having a hold on L, to L having a hold on 'L'. If you understand what I mean!**

**I hope you will tell me what you thought of this chapter, as it is the first mature-rated thing I have ever written. I'd really love to hear whether you thought I handled it effectively.**

**Next chapter L will enter his twenties. This makes me sad, as I know he only has five more years left...**


	17. Coincidence

**Sometimes, coincidences can hurt...**

--

The few months after my experience on the tube passed by slowly. I had given up on securing long-term residence and found myself checking in an out of a variety of different hotels every week, so good, some not so good. I didn't need to use the tube as often as I used to as I handled many of my cases from my computer and over the phone. I hadn't realised before how quickly I could deal with my work. I was left with a lot of time on my hands.

And as I wasn't one for socialising, I had only L and myself for company.

I thought a lot. About all sorts of trivial matters. I found myself thinking about death a lot. About war, disease, crime, the end of the world.

It helped me keep my mind off things.

If that makes any sense at all.

I would shower a lot, too. Even if the bathroom was coated with lime scale or mould, I would still shower. Sometimes I would lose track of time as the droplets of water pelted my bare skin. The heat must have gotten to me on more than one occasion, because sometimes I would look down and find that bruises were scattered over my thighs. After a few good blinks they would fade, though.

I would get a little carried away when washing myself. I'd start with my hair and face and work my way down, but I often spent so much time doing so that by the time I'd rinsed off my feet I felt that the rest of my body was unclean again, would have to start the whole process again, from my head. Sometimes I would scrub my skin until it bled.

But for some reason I still felt dirty.

It was worst at night, when I was lying wide awake in bed. I'd start to feel The Ring's hands sliding all over my body, just like before. And no matter how much I tossed and turned, I couldn't get the feeling to go away.

I was disgusted with myself. I'd never let myself get so shaken up before, so why now? It was just a _body_, for goodness sake. Nothing had ever affected me so badly... surely, nothing had...

I began to think back over my life- huddled in the corner of a busy orphanage, Mummy, holding me for the last time, trying desperately to hide away from the cameras that flashed at me in the police station, sneaking out at night to go burgling, being tied to the train tracks by bullies, B tying me up and torturing me, Nancy being lowered into her grave, B and I grappling on the ground, desperately trying to kill each other...

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My tongue moved to feel the gap in my teeth that had been made four years ago. I felt... How did I feel? I'd forgotten what it was like to feel, really _feel_. And I didn't want to remember, because I was a coward. I didn't want to remember, because I knew it would hurt.

A lot.

So at times like that I would sigh and heave myself out of bed and drag myself to the fridge.

I still didn't like the taste of alcohol. I didn't think I'd ever get used to it. I would eat something sweet like sherbet or skittles right after drinking to wash the bitterness away. Because I did drink it.

It wasn't an addiction or anything. It was just something I did occasionally, on a night, when I couldn't sleep for all the thoughts buzzing around in my head. The alcohol cooled my nerves and numbed my mind and made my body completely relax. I knew I couldn't trust it- I knew the brain worked up to three times slower when under the influence of alcohol- but I couldn't trust myself even more. Sometimes, it was nice to stop thinking. I didn't think I'd ever say it, but it was true. I didn't mind thinking when it was deductions to do with work, but when it was about _me_- that was when it got scary.

It felt good. It made _me_ feel good. I would smile over the slightest things when I drank it. I could see the light again.

I turned the bottle over in my hand and took another long sip, draining the last of the liquid from it. Then I set it down on the side table. I'd only had four. It wasn't much. I smiled.

"L," I muttered under my breath. "I am L. L, L, L..." I repeated it over and over. I must have sounded crazy, but it was okay because there was nobody there to hear. I grinned. "Ah. Interesting. After a word is repeated over a space of time, it loses its meaning." I continued to say 'L', even though my ears no longer registered it as a proper word any more. It was nothing. I was L, and I was nothing.

For some reason, it was all insanely funny.

I started to laugh. I was L, and L was nothing, and so I was effectively nothing. It was really too hilarious. I took a few deep breaths and composed myself. I looked around the room, bewildered. "I think I'm drunk," I said aloud. I paused. "It is perfectly normal for a nineteen year old to become drunk once in a while."

I was a liar. I was a coward. I knew I was just using the drink to stop myself losing control. It didn't always work. Sometimes it made things worse. My mind wouldn't work properly, so sometimes I would punch my pillow or even the wall, not caring that it made my knuckles bleed. Once I was so disgusted at myself for taking the easy way out that I threw a half-empty bottle of lager out of the window. The window was closed, and both it and the bottle shattered into a million pieces.

But that didn't stop me from drinking another glass.

I knew if I continued in this way that I could end up seriously damaging my health. I'd never drank before, so suddenly introducing such a large amount of alcohol into my system could cause me real problems. But for some reason I couldn't stop. I wasn't _reliant_ on it. L didn't rely on anyone but himself.

It just made things easier.

I kept it a complete secret from everyone else. It would have been shameful to admit. I only ever drank alone, and at the times when I had to meet people, I would change into clean clothes and brush my teeth at least three times in order to get the stink of alcohol off my breath.

And that was my life, for a while. Until one case changed all that.

I wasn't really expecting it to be anything special or personal to me when I got the files. It was a serial murder case. In the February of 1999, a prostitute was found dead on an alleyway on the outskirts of London, her throat slit from ear to ear. When prostitutes died, the police force usually didn't bat an eyelid. It was just 'one of those things'. So the girl's murder was swept under the carpet.

But then a week later another prostitute was found dead, her throat cut in the same way as the first. This made me, as well as many Criminal Affairs, quite suspicious. By the time the third girl was found, the case was splattered all over the news, and was a definite case of a serial killer.

I took the case into my own hands. It seemed like fun to L. The killer wasn't changing his method of execution and the bodied were all found it fairly public places, which showed that she or she wasn't afraid or trying to hide what they were doing. It was almost as if they were bragging about it.

I worked on the case with my London team. Of course, my other task forces had cases of their own to handle. I selected one of my most trustworthy colleagues, an older man named Jack Harper, to play the part of 'L'. He would be the one who faced the media and talked to suspects and witnesses. Everyone would think that _he_ was in charge. Meanwhile, I would be Jack Harper, an amateur detective new to his job. Nobody would show any interest in me, despite the new coverage the case was getting. Nobody would ever guess that I was the one pulling all the strings.

I went out of my hotel more and more as the case progressed over two weeks. I had to keep an eye on things closely. It was an expertly done series of murders.

And then a fourth girl was found. Her name was Katherine Ellison (identified by her driver's licence which was found on her body) and she was only eighteen years old. Her parents didn't know she was a prostitute. They refused to believe she was dead, until we showed them her body.

Jack and I- or should I say 'L' and I- observed the scene from behind a one-way mirror. We could see into the mortuary, but those in the mortuary couldn't see in. We were checking for any irregularities in the parents' behaviour when shown the dead body of their only daughter.

Katherine's parents looked like any other middle-aged couple. Mrs Ellison was shaking even before her daughter's body was shown, and Mr Ellison had his arm around her shoulders protectively- though he was trembling too. We couldn't blame them, Jack said. They had just been told that their daughter had been murdered.

Both broke down in tears when Katherine's mutilated body was shown, her chest freshly stitched from the autopsy. Mrs Ellison began shrieking hysterically. Mr Ellison enveloped her in his arms, tears running down his cheeks.

My eyes wandered across to Mr Ellison's left hand, the hand that was stroking his wife's hair comfortingly. And I felt my heart stop, just for a second. I recognised the bitten nails and the dark hair that trailed up the back of his hand. On his third finger, he wore a nine-carat gold wedding ring. If I squinted, I could see the scratch that it had on the side.

My eyes rose up to Mr Ellison's face. It was the first time I'd ever seen his face. He had brown hair that was thinning on top, and stubble dotted over his top lip. I remembered the feel of teeth nipping at my ear.

Suddenly he looked directly at the mirror. I knew he couldn't see me, but I tensed up anyway. From the spark in his eyes I could tell that he wasn't stupid. He knew someone was behind the mirror that he saw.

"Please," he spoke up suddenly, still holding his wife to his chest. "Find whoever did this to Katherine and put him to justice. Please."

I leaned forward and flicked on the small microphone that was attached to a speaker in the mortuary. I stared my abuser in the face for the first time. The synthetic voice picked up the sound of my breathing for a few seconds, before I spoke.

"I promise you I will find your daughter's killer, Mr Ellison," I said.

And I meant it. L always solved the case. No matter what.

Two days after Katherine's body was found, we had a breakthrough with the case. A witness came forward. She was another prostitute, and a friend of Katherine's. She claimed to have been the last person to see Katherine before she was picked up by a client- a man in his fifties. If everything fit, that man could easily have been the murderer.

The prostitute's name was Jessica River. She was twenty-four years old and had been working as in the sex business since she was seventeen. She came forward and said she could name the man who picked up Katherine if his picture was shown to her- be she was afraid to go back on the streets now that she had contacted the police. It seemed she was homeless and sleeping rough.

So she was placed under police protection. We decided to take in turns housing her each night. Jack Harper volunteered to provide her with sufficient shelter that first night. That is, _I_ volunteered. She was our key witness, and I didn't want to let her out of my sight. I didn't trust anyone but myself.

I called a taxi to drive us back to the hotel where I was staying. I suddenly felt wary because I hadn't been expecting anyone to come over, so there were still a few empty cans lying around that I hadn't gotten around to clearing up, but Jessica didn't seem to mind. She acted like she was living in a palace.

"Y'mind if I take a shower? I haven't 'ad a proper shower in so long! And a real double bed too, woah!" She scampered around my room like an excited puppy, flinging herself down on my bed and bouncing on it like a little kid.

She didn't seem so impressed when it was getting late and she was ready to go to bed, though. I was on my laptop, so I hadn't spoken so much as ten words to her the whole time she had been here, and she was getting annoyed.

"Y'know, since there's only one bed here, you're s'posed to offer it to the lady," she said, wrapping a towel around her hair, still wet from the shower.

"I am? Then I offer you the bed," I said, not raising my eyes from the computer screen. "I apologise, Ms River, I have never had visitors before."

"Yeah, I can tell," Jessica muttered. "Hey, switch that damn thing off and talk to me, eh?"

I sighed and looked up at her, but decided not to oblige, even though her talking combined with the glare of the laptop was giving me a headache. Jessica smirked and walked towards me. She forced the lid of my laptop down.

I opened my mouth to protest, but my words died in my throat as Jessica untied the fluffy hotel robe and slowly slid it off her shoulders before letting it drop to the floor, revealing her bare, bronze skin.

I swallowed. It was the first time I'd ever seen a naked woman before. I wasn't quite sure where to look, or whether I even _should_ look. Perhaps it would have been politer to look away, but she was our key witness and I didn't like to let her out of my sight, plus she had stripped of her own accord.

"You're staring," Jessica smiled in amusement.

"I'm not staring," I corrected plainly. "You are a witness. It is my job to keep a close watch on you and make sure you do not get into any trouble."

Jessica looked confused, then she smiled, laughing a little and shaking her head. She tilted her head to one side, bending one leg so that one hip curved out to the side and arching her shoulders to push her breasts forward. I didn't react.

She reached out and her hand stroked my cheek, her fingertips light on my skin. And then she leaned in to kiss me.

I backed away so quickly that I lost my balance and fell backwards, hitting the back of my head against the wall, hard enough to make my ears ring. Jessica's hands tugged up my shirt before I could stop them, and then attacked the fastener of my jeans. I gasped and grabbed her wrists, forcing her hands away.

She stood back, hands on hips. "What's the matter with you?" She asked. "Don't y' _want_ to 'ave sex? What are y', gay? Don't worry, y' wouldn't be the only one I've 'ad."

I frowned. "I don't think I'm anything," I said.

Jessica paused, then an amused grin spread over her face. "Well, that's a first!" She said. "So you're tellin' me that y' _don't_ want sex?"

"That was not why I brought you here, no," I replied.

Jessica picked her robe up off the floor and pulled it back on. "Sorry," she said. "But when a young bloke takes a girl he knows is a prostitute to a hotel, it usually means he wants sex. Just sayin'..."

"I'm a detective," I said, getting up off the floor.

"Yeah, so?" Jessica snorted. "Other coppers would've done it."

I opened my laptop. The screen flashed before my eyes and I blink. "I'm not like them," I murmured under my breath. It was little more than a whisper, but Jessica heard.

"Yeah, I can see that!" She smiled. Then she sighed and flopped down on the bed, her head in her hands. "What must y' think of me, eh? Take a girl in off the streets and she starts takin' all her clothes off. I know what people think about girls like me. But you know," she sat up straight and looked at me, a determined frown on her face. "I didn't have to be like this. I went to school, got my GCSEs. I was _clever. _I could've gone to college, I'll have y' know! I could've been somethin'."

I didn't like how things were developing- if we carried on like this, we might end up having a conversation- but I found myself saying "What happened?"

"I were stupid, that's what!" Jessica said fiercely. "When I were fifteen I got pregnant. Me Mum told me to pack my bags and get out, and me boyfriend didn't want to know. 'Cause I were preggers I got a hostel to stay at, but they kicked me out as soon as me baby were born. 'Course, nobody was going to give a job to a dropout like me, so I got into the sex trade, even with me little baby."

I blinked.

"I loved 'im, y'know. Y' might not think it, for all the trouble 'e caused me, but I did. He were my son. But I knew as soon as he were born that I couldn't keep 'im. I gave put him into Care. I never named 'im 'cause I knew I wouldn't be able to do it if I did. I still think about 'im, y'know. Every day. 'E should be about eight now, I reckon." Jessica's voice faded to a whisper. There were tears in her eyes, but she was holding them in. "I still remember what 'e looked like, just a little nipper. Even though 'e were newborn he had these big dark eyes. When I gave 'im away 'e were lookin' at me with those eyes, and I know it sounds daft, but I think... I think he knew I were leavin' him..."

I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I knew how to put two and two together. "Ms River, why are you telling me all this?" I asked.

Jessica smiled sadly at me. "'Cause I can tell you're not going to start givin' me a lecture. You seem like a guy who knows what it's like to 'ave problems," she said quietly. "You're an alcoholic."

"I am _not_ an alcoholic," I said, instantly defensive.

"Any guy with beer bottles in his _bathroom_ is an alcoholic," Jessica stated, folding her arms and giving me a 'so there' look. "I've seen it all b'fore. Trust me one this one, kid."

"It's... not like that. It isn't an addiction. I just have a glass to-"

"Help you sleep? Get your mind off things? Block out your troubles? Pretend that the whole world isn't out to get y'?" Jessica supplied, her eyebrows raised. "And then that one glass turns into two and then three, and eventually y' drinkin' enough for five people, right?"

I stared at her. "I'm not an alcoholic," I whispered. But I was; I was. And I couldn't stand her saying these things, because I knew she was right. I was a coward relying on alcohol to bring me through the day. And the worst part was that I always prided myself for never having to rely on anyone but myself.

"Well, I don't know what y' problems are, but the answers aren't goin' to be inside a wine bottle, y' got that?" Jessica told me gently. She got up off the bed and walked towards me, sitting down beside me on the sofa. She smiled sadly at me. "Y' got too much to live for to kill y'self with booze."

I gave her a questioning look and she sighed.

"Y' really are a puzzle, y' know that?" she said. "But from what I can see y' doin' pretty well for yourself 'ere. Don't spoil it, eh?"

I didn't reply. I just continued to stare down at my lap blankly, my head whirring away with so many thoughts. I needed a drink.

Jessica leaned in closer to me and cupped my face in her hands, raising my head to look at her. "How old are y'?" She asked.

"Twenty-three," I lied. I was nineteen. I could easily pass for twenty-three. She might become suspicious if she knew my real age.

"Y' look younger," she said. "'Specially y' eyes. Y' look so young... Like a little boy."

I simply looked at her. "Please don't touch me," I whispered. "I don't like being touched."

Jessica quickly withdrew her hands. "Sorry," she murmured. She got up from the sofa and wandered back to the bed and switched off the bedside lamp as she sat down, leaving only the faint blue glow of the computer to light the room. I couldn't see her face anymore, but the dim light outlined her body.

"You're a good man, Jack Harper," she said, and lay down against the pillows.

And though I didn't reply, and though I knew she was wrong, in my head I said a silent 'Thank you'.

A week later I solved the case. I had been planning to solve it more slowly to give L more work, but for some reason I just wanted the whole thing over and done with. I was getting in way too deep for my own good, and it was all getting too personal. I now felt guiltier than ever when I turned to the bottle, and my mind kept flicking back to Watari and Wammy House, too.

I never saw Jessica again. I watched her testify against the murderer on a tape that was recorded during the trial and read over the court records and double checked everything she said.

After the trial I got a letter from her, hand-delivered to Criminal Affairs, thanking me and my team for everything we had done for her. She wrote that she had found a place to stay, and that she had decided to go to college and study psychology. She wanted to be a social worker, she said. That way, one day, she might be able to see her son again.

She didn't leave an address. Not that I would have written back if she had.

I wanted to forget all about her, all about the entire case.

I wanted...

I wanted...

I wanted another drink.

--

**I'll stop this chapter here, though it feels like I could have written more... Anyway, as you can see, L's little alcohol problem isn't cleared up yet. And everyone knows who Jessica's son is, right?**

**This chapter was a lot easier to write than the last one, which I was shamefully grateful for! Heh heh, I still find amusement at L's reply to 'What are y', gay?". I really liked that line when thinking up this chapter, so I'm glad I got to put it in. I don't know if any of you have noticed this either, but I'm taking the story much more slowly now that L is almost in his twenties. It's like I'm trying to push his death as far away as possible!**

**Please read and review as usual, and I hope to update soon!**


	18. Time for Change

**L saved people. It was what he did. But he needed to someone to save him from himself...**

--

Up to my twentieth birthday, my whole life was a blur of hotel rooms and filed reports. I followed a simple schedule that I stuck to religiously. I would wake up at six in the morning, and work until long after the sun had set and the rest of the world had gone to sleep. I rarely ate at all any more- I never felt hungry. I would still take my daily dosage of sugar, but meals were replaced with alcohol.

I was an alcoholic and I knew it, but I would never admit that to myself. That would be a sign of weakness. Though I was weak for turning to drink in the first place. My mind had learned to function properly despite me drinking so much. My body was building up a resistance to it, and it became harder and harder to get drunk and relax myself. So every night I'd have to drink just a little bit more.

I wasn't stupid. I knew what it was doing to me. I knew I was slowly killing myself, but for some reason I didn't care. It all seemed worth it just so I could experience those few short hours of feeling _good_- before I was leaning over the toilet puking my guts out.

I had opened my eyes long ago to what I had become. One night, after having been sick over the sink of the hotel room I was staying in, I looked up into the mirror and saw myself, pale and dishevelled with vomit dripping from my chin, for what I really was.

And I didn't like it.

But, I didn't do anything to change it either. I'd spent the whole of my adult life helping other people, albeit indirectly. But from this I had learned that there were some who you just couldn't help, no matter how hard you tried. There were some people who seemed to be doomed from the start.

I think I was one of those people.

It didn't matter. I was strong. I'd dealt with so much more in my life, and I had L with me to get me through it. He was me, and I was him, and we needed each other. L needed me to keep himself alive, and I needed him for exactly the same reason.

It was a dark time in my life. And the person to shine a light on it would be the one who effectively got me into the whole chaotic mess.

It was a rainy, late September evening. I'd just solved a case that involved the kidnapping of a young boy and I was in the shower when I heard a knock at the door of my hotel room. I took my time going to answer it, making sure to thoroughly rinse my hair and dry myself properly. Whoever the person wanting to see me was, they could wait.

I shrugged on my complimentary robe and slouched over to the door.

"Yes?" I said, opening the door.

"Hello, Ryuzaki," Watari said.

I took a breath. I think by this time I had lost the ability to express any emotion through my facial expression, but Watari could sense my surprise, because he smiled in amusement.

"What's happened?" I asked.

Watari chuckled. "Something has to have happened for me to visit you?" He said. His voice lowered. "I raised you, L. I think I'm entitled to be a little worried once in a while." He paused. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

I subconsciously raised my hand to rest it against the doorframe, effectively blocking the entrance. "I'm busy," I stated. It was so painfully obvious that I was trying to hide something, and I hated myself for it. I was always such a good liar. But Watari could see right through me.

"Let me in, please," he said, and I decided to take a chance. If I protested too fiercely, he'd realise that something was wrong. If I just played it casual, perhaps he wouldn't notice. I smiled to myself in amusement. Was this what people called 'wishful thinking'...?

Watari marched into my room and looked around in appreciation. I had only checked into the hotel the previous night, so it was still rather clean. I wasn't one to leave my things lying around anyway, thought there was a bottle of wine left open on the table- empty, of course.

Watari didn't seem to pay it any mind, but I knew he had noticed.

"I have cake," I said suddenly. "Do you want some cake?"

Watari settled down on the sofa. He looked up at me. "Yes, all right."

I went to the fridge and took out the box. As I separated the cake onto two plates I noticed that my skin was even whiter than usual. Even my fingernails had lost their colour. I sighed inwardly. I needed another drink.

"Here," I said, wandering back to the sofa and handing the plate to Watari. He took a small piece of cake up on his fork and put it in his mouth. Then he wrinkled his nose.

"It's stale," he said.

"It is?" I tasted my own slice. The sponge was dry and crumbled in my mouth, and the icing was as hard as a rock. "It is." I thought back to when I had last went shopping. "I purchased it about a month ago. That would explain a lot."

Watari placed his plate down on the side table. I continued to chew the tasteless cake.

"It's good to see you again," Watari said, smiling. "You've changed a lot. You look... more grown up." I thought about my owl-like eyes and my scruffy hair and the way my lower lip permanently stuck out a little, making me look like I was pouting.

"No, I don't," I murmured, and Watari chuckled.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you?" He asked. "Your work is going well, I hope?"

"Yes."

Watari sighed. "You really don't want me here, do you. Well, never mind. I just popped in to say hello, so I suppose I'll be going now. I don't really need to be here, after all." He stood up, and I did too. I didn't tell him not to leave.

He suddenly pulled me into a hug. I froze completely, every muscle in my body seizing up. I didn't like being touched. But maybe, I told myself, it was okay with Watari. I trusted Watari, despite everything. I heard him breathe in deeply as he hugged me. Then he pulled away.

"You've been drinking," he said calmly.

I barely skipped a beat. "You're wrong."

"I can smell it."

My gaze flickered to the side, just for a fraction of a second. How could he smell it...? I'd always made sure to wash myself so carefully, making sure that nobody could smell it, that nobody could ever know...

"Please leave now, Watari," I said, ushering him to the door. Instead of leaving, however, he turned around to face me. He was still a good few feet taller than me thanks to my hunched back.

"Why have you been drinking?" He asked sternly.

"That is none of your business," I said brusquely, opening the door. "Please excuse me. I have a lot of work to do."

"I'm not leaving, L," Watari said quietly. I looked at him blankly, my heart thudding. I knew that voice. He was putting his foot down. And as I said before, _nobody_ argued with him when he did that. Not even me. I closed the door, and Watari sat back down on the sofa.

"Now, I want the truth, do you hear me?" He said. I stood there for a while, battling with myself. Eventually, I swallowed my pride- which felt like swallowing a small country- and nodded. I hopped up on the sofa in my usual crouch beside Watari, not looking at him once.

"How much have you had, just today?" Watari asked. My hands tightened into fists. "Tell me," he ordered.

"I drank that red wine this morning. It was bitter. I didn't like it. But it was cheap, so that's understandable," I said emotionlessly, nodding towards the bottle on the table. "That was at half past eight this morning. I had two cans of lager at nine o'clock while I was working. Then I had a break. I had another three just after lunch, and I had a glass of cider just before I had a shower."

Watari had been shaking his head all through my little monologue. He sighed. "And you've been drinking this much for a while, haven't you? At least a few months. You're not drunk, which shows that your body has had time to build up a resistance to it. Plus the cake you had was stale. If you were yourself you would have eaten it long ago, probably the day after you bought it."

I nodded. "Yes. That's right."

Watari shook his head again. "Oh, L..." He looked at my, his eyebrows tenting to crease his forehead. He looked so... disappointed. I didn't need that. I didn't need him looking down on me and seeing how weak I really was.

"How could you do this to yourself...?" Watari asked quietly. His voice hardened. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I replied. "As I said, I'm busy. Please leave. _Now,_ Watari."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what happened," Watari said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms defiantly.

"I don't have to tell you," I whispered. "I am not your son."

Watari leaned forward again and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me a little. "I _know_ you're not my son; you never will be, and you wouldn't allow it even if I wanted you to be. But I raised you, _Ryuzaki_, and I _don't_ want to see you wasting your life away like this. Can't you see how _important _you are, Ryuzaki?"

I laughed then. I had to. I would have cried if I didn't. "I am not important," I croaked out. "I am L Lawliet." I shrugged my shoulders, forcing Watari to let me go. "And don't touch me, please. I don't like being touched."

Watari leaned his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. He looked like he was getting a migraine. "Oh Ryuzaki, what am I going to do with you...?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered, feeling like a little boy all over again.

"It's all right, Ryuzaki. I'm not angry, I'm just..." Watari took a deep breath. "You have to stop," he said.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I knew that I had to stop. I knew that, and yet... had I ever tried? It was a thing easier said than done.

"I don't think I can," I stated plainly, raising my head to stare straight ahead. I was weak, weak, weak. And I didn't care. _I didn't care._

"Yes, you can," Watari said firmly. "And you will. You're going to get through this, Ryuzaki. _We're_ going to get through this." He laid a hand on my shoulder, but I didn't flinch away. "Don't worry," he said, smiling gently. "I'll help you."

We sat in silence for a moment.

"Ryuzaki?" Watari said questioningly. "Is that okay?"

I didn't look at him. I didn't even acknowledge his words. I just sat, staring into space. And before I knew it, my mouth had moved on its own to form the words:

"Yes. That's okay."

--

**A much shorter chapter this time, but I was trying to get it done quickly for you all. Tomorrow my computer will be taken away to be fixed or have something installed or something like that (don't ask. My dad set it up), so I won't be able to get back on it for about two weeks. I didn't want to make you all wait **_**that**_** long, so I admit I rushed myself to get this written down.**

**Perhaps that's why it's not as good as I wanted it to be... Ah well, I'll edit it later. Maybe.**

**Well, goodbye for two weeks! Ugh, I'm dreading looking at all my emails after that time! My inbox will be CRAMMED. Probably full of 'forum thread alert's!**

**I quite like the atmosphere of this chapter, though I do think I could have written it better. I like the relationship between Watari and L. They're like the father and son that never really were...**


	19. Alcoholics Anonymous

**There was a time when L realised that really, he wasn't so different...**

--

Watari didn't go back to Wammy House. He made several phone calls to an indignant Roger, explaining that I was extremely busy and in need of help to deal with such a workload. He could lie just as convincingly as me when he wanted to, talking with just the right amount of patience and understanding. Perhaps he was who I derived the talent from.

I have to admit, during the time Watari spent with me, he kept me on my toes. He went about his business so casually, but every time I turned around he was there, watching me, making sure that I wasn't ever tempted to turn to drink again. He didn't say anything about it, but I could constantly feel his eyes scrutinizing me.

I didn't know why I cared so much about what he thought of me and my lifestyle. I didn't want him to see me drinking, but it would have been that way with anybody. Alcoholism was my shameful secret that I had intended to carry to my grave. Watari would consider me weak if he saw me drinking again.

But I wouldn't have stopped for anyone else. If somebody, a colleague, happened to find out about my... habit, then I would have been ashamed. But I wouldn't have made any attempt to stop. Those people were indifferent to me. Why should I care if I worried them? But with Watari, I did care. Just a little.

It wasn't easy to stop. Watari threw out all the alcohol in the suite right away, and when we switched hotels he would make sure to have the fridge emptied of all alcoholic beverages before we even arrived there, so it was practically impossible for me to get my hands on anything. It drove me crazy.

I tried to distract myself with my work. I set up several more aliases around to world to work on, and accepted almost twice as many cases as I previously had, but it didn't seem to make a difference. My hands still shook violently as I tried to type on my laptop, and my head was so alive with thought that it felt as if it would split clean open.

I took on lots of activities, the more physical the better. With my heart pounding and my lungs burning and my head swimming, I didn't have time to crave a drink. I played squash and tennis. I was especially good at tennis. I would play for hours. I would watch people come and go on the opposing side, and I would be nowhere near finished. I gained a small amount of satisfaction from that. Throughout my childhood, I had always been picked last for sports.

I took up martial arts, too- judo and aikido. Both were defensive sports that relied on throws and dodges and using the opponent's strength against them. I was good at performing the throws, but I preferred it when others practiced their moves on me. In some strange, perverse way, it felt _good_ whenever I was thrown to the floor. It was almost... comforting. Physical pain was so much better than the alternative.

I started eating again, too. When I relied on alcohol I was almost never hungry. In fact, that fact hadn't changed. But I could taste things properly again. I'd almost forgotten how good desserts tasted.

But I still had cravings that I couldn't control. Watari could always tell when they kicked in because I got especially fidgety and irritable. When he realised that the cravings weren't going away, he did something drastic. He told me to go to Alcoholics Anonymous.

Of course, I refused. I didn't need help. I could cure my addiction all by myself. However, when I claimed this, Watari quickly retorted that I'd still be hiding in a bottle if he hadn't come by to visit me, and I couldn't deny it.

So I went. I was too tired and too defeated to pursue the argument any further.

The person organising the meeting was a small man in his late thirties. He took my hand and shook it without any prompt from me and introduced himself as Henry Johnson.

"And you are?" he asked.

"I thought this was anonymous," I replied, and he laughed as if I'd made a joke. So I told him my name was Jack Harper.

He showed me to a room where other people had gathered and were chatting. There were lots of chairs set out in a horse-shoe shape, but nobody was sitting on them. They were too busy getting to know each other.

I sat down silently, not bothering to talk to anyone. I got a few strange stares thanks to the way I sat, in that crouched position, but nobody said anything. I think they accepted that everyone there had their reasons. A large, whiskered man in his fifties sat down with a groan beside me. He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one and held it too his lips and sucked on it as if the smoke was the very air he breathed. He offered me the pack.

"Want one?" He asked gruffly.

I shook my head. "No. Thank you."

He grinned. I noticed that one of his front teeth was missing, and I unconsciously touched the gap in the back of my mouth with my tongue.

He blew a billow of smoke into the air. "Y'look like y'need it," he said.

I tilted my head slightly to the side to look at him. "A nicotine addiction is not on my list of things I need. Thank you." I knew it was rude but I didn't care. I didn't want to be there in that stuffy room with all those people.

All those weak people.

All those weak people who took the easy way out because they were too sad, scared or tired not to.

And the worst part of all was that I wasn't any different.

I wasn't any better.

I was exactly the same as everyone else in the room.

The man let out a throaty cough, not bothering to cover his mouth with his hand. "Your old lady never teach you to respect your elders?" he asked. He spoke in a cockney accent, made gravelly no doubt by the cigarettes. He turned to look at me properly with beady eyes, and frowned. "'Ere; you all right, mate?"

I nodded blankly. He waved a stumpy hand in front of my face and I didn't blink.

"You on something or what?" he said.

"Excuse me?"

The man laughed heartily and shook his head. "Never mind. So, this y'first time 'ere? S'all right once y'get used to it. Johnson's a twat, mind. Been coming 'ere 'bout a month, meself."

"Does it work?" I couldn't resist aking.

The man laughed again. "Sort of. I'm still drinkin' 'course, but it's nice 'ere. Pretty much everyone 'ere just comes to 'ave a rant and get all the shit off their chest. Feels good, y'know. No-one minds if y'talk about gippos or poofs, neither. I'm Gary, by the way."

"Hello, Gary," I said and he narrowed his eyes at me.

"And you are?" he supplied.

"Jack Harper."

Gary shook his head again and scratched his stubbly scalp. "Anyone ever tell y'that y'strange, Jack Harper?"

"A few," I replied.

Henry walked into the middle of the room and clapped his hands for attention. "If we could all take our seats now, please."

There was a huge bustle as people clamoured for the chairs. I noted that most there were men, and older than me. I saw a young man and woman, who looked like they might've been a couple, who were about my age. We were the only ones there under thirty.

I watched intently as we travelled around the circle. In turn, people would stand up and introduce themselves, followed by 'and I'm an alcoholic' (I thought it stupid that they would insist on reminding themselves of that fact, but Henry said something about how the first step to solving your problem is admitting it). They would then go on to explain how they turned to the drink. Many stories were related to money problems. I had to bite my tongue not to comment. If you were short of money, surely you wouldn't want to waste it all on alcohol? It was so stupid.

We were all supposed to just sit there and listen to whatever yarn anyone wanted to spin us. Gary had a long rant about 'bloody Packis coming over and taking our jobs', which spurred several cheers and nods of agreement from some members of the circle. It all seemed quite ridiculous to me. How was this supposed to solve their problems?

I felt a strong elbow nudging my side.

"Oi, s'your turn," Gary hissed at me.

I looked around to find everyone staring at me expectantly.

"Jack," Henry said gently, "would you like to stand?"

"...No. I'd rather sit, thank you," I replied emotionlessly. There was a long, awkward pause as everyone shared curious glances and waited for me to speak. "My name is Jack Harper," I said eventually. "And I'm-"

I stopped. And in the silence that followed, I realised something. I couldn't do it. I didn't have the strength to stand up and say 'I'm an alcoholic'. I couldn't admit it, not to these people- but more so, not to myself. I looked into the faces of everyone in the room. The vacant, pallid faces that were wrinkled before their time; and the sad, stupid people that were ten times stronger than I ever could be.

"I..." I swallowed and took a breath. "I have to go now."

And I climbed off my chair and walked out.

I was only halfway down the street when Gary caught up to me, wheezing for breath, his face purple with effort.

"Oi!" he gasped. "Oi, kid! Jack! Where d'you think you're goin', eh?"

"Home," I replied. In truth I didn't know where I was going, but I didn't stop walking.

Gary seized my wrist in his fleshy hand. "Y'can't go yet. Meetin' ain't over." He pulled me around to face him, then released me and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Listen mate, I know it's difficult first time 'round, but... Seriously, just come back, right? Talk about y'self. It 'elps."

I looked at him pointedly. "I really have no interest in sharing the contents of my life with those people."

"Jesus Christ, you an't 'alf a little bugger! Now you listen to me, kid, y'can get down of that bloody high horse o' yours. You got y'problems, but 'as everyone else in that bloody room. Y'think you're so diff'rent y'can think again. They ain't gonna judge you 'cause they know what it's like to 'ave problems. They ain't gonna look down on y' or give y'a lecture, got it? That's what good 'bout this place. Everyone 'ere just doesn't give a shit no more." Gary grabbed my shoulders and gave me a little shake. I looked at the ground.

I heard him sigh. "S'okay for me. I'm old, I've lived me life best I could. But y'just a kid, Jack. How old are y', eighteen?"

"I'm twenty."

"_Twenty_," Gary heaved. "That ain't nothin'. Y'still got y'whole life ahead of you, so don't waste it. Y'come back to the meetin'. In a few month you'll be back on track doin' y'job. What d'you do, anyway?"

"I'm a detective."

"You're jokin'! Anyway, you do that. Leave us old geezers to all the shit that life 'ands out, okay?"

I smiled tiredly. "I thought you weren't going to lecture me."

Gary hissed in annoyance and ruffled my hair as if I were a dog. "Yeah, yeah, y'little smartarse." He smiled too. "C'mon, Jack, let's go back."

I stayed quiet for a while. Eventually, I nodded. "Okay," I whispered.

We walked back side by side.

"By the way," I spoke up suddenly. "My name isn't really Jack. It's L."

Gary snorted. "Bird's name!"

I had to smile.

Every at the AA made a great show of not staring at Gary and me when we came back. Gary only drew more attention to us by loudly declaring "Got 'im!" when we returned. I made sure to feign confidence and meet everybody's gaze accordingly.

"Jack, welcome back!" Henry said in an overly-cheerful voice. "I'm glad you decided to give this another go. Do you still want your turn to talk, or should we move on?"

"I'll talk. Thank you," I replied. "But I won't say that I'm an alcoholic, just so Mr Johnson knows." I found it was easier to refer to him as 'Mr Johnson' rather than 'you'. It made the conversation seem more distant. As if it was impersonal to me.

Henry blinked at me. "Well, that's fine, I suppose," he said. "Would you please take your seat?"

I hopped onto one of the two empty chairs in the middle of the circle, and Gary sat beside me.

"I was born in Russia," I said suddenly, even surprising myself. "I was found. In a shopping cart. In a park." I was talking more to myself than to the people in the room. Even though my eyes were focused on them, I wasn't seeing anything.

I stopped talking. For the umpteenth time that night, odd looks were shared between the members of the AA.

"Is... there anything you'd like to add to that?" Henry asked uncertainly.

"When I was fifteen I tried to kill my adoptive brother. I tried to strangle him and stab him with a pen. Then I knocked him down a flight of stairs."

Truthfully, I just said that to see what their reaction would be. Judging from the looks on their faces, I'd say that nobody was expecting it. Some people look surprised, horrified. Other were almost fearful, whilst a few simply shook their heads in disbelief. I could feel Gary staring at me.

"And why did you do that, Jack?" Henry said as calmly as he could. He didn't share the same look of shock as the other people did. But that was his job.

"I was... angry," I replied. "A lot of people have died because of me. I've killed people. Perhaps I killed them just by knowing them. If I passed someone in the street, they might die later that day and it would be my fault. Is that..." I looked at Henry, my head tilted to one side, "strange?"

"He's crazy!" one woman suddenly declared. I turned my head quickly to stare at her and she flinched.

"Perhaps I am," I said quietly. "Everything would make a lot more sense if I were."

"Jack, could you tell us how you feel _now?"_ Henry suddenly asked. I think he was uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. But then anyone would be.

"Now?" I repeated. I thought for a bit. Then I smiled a tiny smile. "Tired," I said quietly. I felt so tired. And young. Like a child.

"I want to leave now," I said. "I talked like Mr Johnson wanted me to. So now I'm going to leave."

And this time, nobody tried to stop me as I walked out.

--

**I think I'll end it there. Though I could write more, I think I'll save it for the next chapter.**

**All right, firstly I have a huge apology to make for all who I kept waiting for this chapter! I had major writer's block with this ever since I got my laptop back, and plus I'm worried to death about the next chapter.**

**You see, in LA Murder Cases, there was mentioned a sort of battle of wits between L, and the first X and first Z of Wammy House, as they all tried to solve the same case, which was apparently a bio-terror crisis. I'm quite weak at writing about L's work life, and this is a big part of his life that revolves around his work, so I'm in a pickle as to how I will handle it.**

**I quite like Gary, who I created for this chapter. He's a nice person who'll look out for you and you can have a joke with, but he also displays casual racism and homophobia that still is not uncommon these days. Those of course are not traits I would value in a person, but I think they make him more realistic.**

**Please read and review as usual; I'd like to hear your thoughts on this chapter, as well as what I could include next! Bio-terror is the release (or threat of release) of deadly bacteria, just so you know!**


	20. Place in the Universe

**L's place in the universe was small...**

--

The A.A wasn't so bad once you got used to it. But I suppose that could be said for anywhere in the universe. After that first day I had planned on washing my hands entirely of the place, but Watari could be most persuasive when he wanted to be.

"I'm not going back," I had told him when I returned that evening.

"Okay," Watari had replied. "Do as you wish."

And I didn't say anything back, but I knew that next week, and of my own accord, I would go to the meeting. And the week after that, and the week after that. It was as if I could no longer control my body, and I was merely a puppet, and Watari was pulling the strings. I knew it was all for my own good, and that's why I went along with it.

That and I didn't have any other option.

Most of the people there gave me a wide berth, which I was grateful for. I had no intention of revealing myself to anyone. Even Johnson spoke to me differently to how he spoke to the others; carefully, as if he were afraid that I would snap. He talked to me more than he did anyone else, too. I often had to remind him that we were in a public meeting, and we were not the only people in the room. He had to consider other people's problems, after all. They were a pleasant distraction from my own.

Most weeks were, frankly, quite dull. People stood up and grumbled and complained about their lives, then went home. Nobody except Gary talked to me, and even he kept an air of caution about him when he did. I liked it that way. I would have been happier if Gary had given up on me, too. The invisible walls that had slowly formed over the years to cut me off from the rest of the world had become my home, and I found I could only feel comfortable when I was alone and alienated.

One certain meeting still clings heavily to my mind, more clearly than all the others. Johnson had brought in a psychologist to analyse us, a woman called Andrea Coates. She took an immediate interest in me, though she tried not to show it. She went around the circle dutifully as Johnson had advised her to, but jumped at her chance to interrogate me. I gave her the bluntest answers possible, in the hope that she would give up and move on. But that only seemed to intrigue her further. I couldn't say I was too surprised- there was something about me that made people want to ask questions. Lot and lots of questions that I didn't want to answer.

"What do you think about yourself?" Andrea asked. "What do you _like_ about yourself?"

I thought for a moment. "I'm clever," I decided upon. There was a long pause.

"...Anything else?" Andrea urged.

I tried to think of something else. I really tried. But I didn't succeed. I'd never thought about it before, but apart from my intelligence, what _was_ there to like about me? I wasn't caring or kind or cheerful or modest. I lacked the ability to communicate effectively with others, and most people I came into contact with took instant dislike to me. I couldn't chat and laugh like other people. I didn't have any real qualities that could be considered remotely likable.

And I realised in that moment that I didn't like myself very much.

I didn't like the person I had become. I didn't like the person L had turned me into.

So I replied, "No. Nothing else."

Gary found it all very funny. He said that the meetings had gotten more interesting since I started attending them. He wasn't like the other people there. They insisted that I kept my distance, and I did so willingly; but after that first meeting Gary had taken me under his wing. He was a little wary of me, I could tell. But he treated me like a human being, which was more than could be said of the likes of Johnson and Andrea.

Gary was a decent man. I suppose that would be the nicest way to describe him. Of course, he was gruff and coarse and vulgar, but he was also very understanding. He didn't pry into my affairs like other people did.

And he was also, surprisingly, very religious.

He couldn't comprehend with the fact that I didn't believe in God.

"So, what d'_you _think 'appens when y'die?" he asked me one night after the meeting had just ended. We were standing outside the meeting hall, and Gary was smoking.

"Nothing happens," I replied. "You die. Your life ends. That's all there is."

Gary took a long drag on his cigarette. "How can y'look at the world and not believe there's somethin' out there, eh?"

"How can I look at the world and believe there is?" I said, staring straight ahead.

"Ah, shut yer face," Gary grumbled. "I tell y', I've met a lot of people in my time, and god damn it, I've never met anyone as bloody annoying as you. Y'never give me a straight answer!"

"Don't I?"

"No, mate, y'don't. It's always one bloody riddle after another," Gary said. "I don't buy this whole 'man of mystery' lark. Y'just some smartarsed kid who likes to mess with this old man's head, am I right?" Gary said accusingly.

I smiled. "Yes. That's right."

I raised my head to look up at the sky, my neck clicking grotesquely as I did so as I was so unused to looking up. It was a cloudy night, and the sky was tainted orange and brown from the street lamps below. Only a few tiny stars shone through, blinking feebly against the distracting orange light.

"What're y'looking at?" I heard Gary say. He too was looking up at the sky, squinting.

"My place in the universe," I answered quietly.

"You what?"

"The stars," I elaborated. "There's a lot of them. More than we can see. When I look up at the sky I can see myself in comparison to everything out there. I can see my place in the universe, Gary. And it's tiny." I continued, "It makes me think that- if I died tomorrow, who would care. I could die and it wouldn't matter. The rest of the universe would go on living. One individual doesn't matter. A million individuals don't matter. It comes to the point where nothing really matters anymore."

"You believe that because you don't believe in God," Gary said nobly.

"No," I replied. "I don't believe in God because I believe that. I don't _think_ there is no God, Gary. I _know_ there isn't."

Gary clouted me over the head. "Miserable li'l bugger," he said with some amusement. He took his cigarette packet out of the pocket of his natty leather coat. He lit one for himself then offered me one. "Go on," he urged. "Try it. One won't hurt you."

"No thank you," I said, but Gary forced it into my hand.

"You just said that y'only live once, so live a little, eh?" he said, grinning, showing the gap in his teeth.

I paused for a moment, then slowly raised the cigarette to my lips. Gary burst out laughing. He stopped my hand and plucked to cigarette from my fingers. He turned it around and then gave it back to me.

"You'll be in serious trouble if y'try to smoke it that way, mate," he said, roaring with laughter. I snatched my hand away, humiliated. Gary lit the end of the cigarette and I stared at it for a few seconds, watching the thin line of smoke trailing upwards before disappearing completely.

"Just put it in y'mouth an' breathe normally," Gary instructed, acting it out for me.

I did as I was instructed. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever tasted. I could feel the smoke burning all the way down my throat and in my lungs. I tried hard not to cough, but it was impossible. The cigarette fell from my unresisting fingers as I gasped and wheezed uncontrollably. Gary had to pat me on the back to stop me choking on my own saliva.

I wiped my watering eyes. "And Gary... calls that living, does he?"

Gary wiped his own eyes, as by this time he was almost crying with laughter. "What are y', thirteen?" he guffawed. "Don't worry. Nobody likes it first time."

I sucked my tongue, trying to get rid of the horrible taste in my mouth. Then I remember that I had some boiled sweets in my pocket. They were a bit old and covered in fluff, but they managed to distract me from the smoke.

"Can't believe y'never smoked, mate. Y'look like y'would," Gary commented. "Y'never swear, neither, come to think of it. Hey, y'not one of those posh kids, are y'? Y'know, 'jolly good' and all that shit?"

"Do I sound like that?" I asked seriously.

Gary snorted. "Nah, I'm kidding y'," he said. "Y'ever done drugs, then?"

"No," I replied. "I like to keep a firm grip on my sense of reality."

"Sure y'do. That's why y'drink, right?" Gary said mockingly. He leaned in closer to me. "Y'ever had a woman?"

I blinked at him.

"Oh you are fuckin' kiddin' me," Gary cried. "Y'don't even know what that means, do you?"

"I could hazard a guess," I muttered.

"So y'saying that y'never had sex b'fore? Not even once?" Gary asked.

I didn't like where the conversation was going. "Not even once," I said firmly. "Topic closed." I had no intention of talking about sex, which Gary could obviously see. He looked surprised. Was intercourse a popular subject of conversation amongst males? I couldn't see how. I wouldn't think it to be a particularly enjoyable practice.

"So y'sayin' that you-"

"I'm sorry, Gary. I have to go now," I interrupted. I took my phone out of my pocket and dialled the number I knew my heart. I held it limply to my ear. "Watari, the meeting is over."

Gary rolled his eyes. "I can see where I'm not wanted," he huffed. He waddled off down the street. "See y'next week, mate."

But I wouldn't see him the next week, because when I arrived back at the hotel Watari and I were staying at, I found I had several emails requesting my services. One to L, and also one to Danuve, and another to Eraldo Coil. All three were from the C.I.A., and all three presented the same case: that somewhere in New York, bio-terrorists were ready to release a deadly amount of bacteria into the public, and that they needed only the very best to prevent it.

I smiled in amusement. The C.I.A obviously didn't know that L, Eraldo and Danuve were all in fact the same person. They had failed to mention the other detectives on each of the letters that they sent. Sneaky. They were trying to get three minds for the price of one.

Well, if that was what they wanted, who was I to deprive them of it?

Smiling, I replied to each of the emails in turn. L, Eraldo and Danuve were on the case.

--

**I was planning on introducing the bio-terrorism thing this chapter, but instead I'll put it next, because I wanted L to reveal more of himself emotionally. What he said about looking up at the stars and seeing how tiny and insignificant your place is in the universe is something I think about a lot.**

**Please read and review as usual- and I'm sorry about the long wait for this chapter. I was on holiday with my entire family. It was Hell on Earth.**


	21. Eraldo, Danuve, L

**Eraldo. Danuve. L...**

--

Despite my widespread influence, it was my first time on a plane. I couldn't say I cared for it- the deafening shriek of customs was almost too much to bear, and the stewards made me sit with both feet on the floor in when riding the plane, which I found extremely uncomfortable. The whole journey was cramped and hot and dirty and brought back horrible memories. I did enjoy the take-off, though. I sat with my forehead pressed against the window, my breath steaming up the glass as I watched with wide eyes the world getting smaller and smaller below me. But then we went into the clouds, and there was nothing to see. Just endless, endless white oblivion. I didn't like looking at it. It felt as if I was staring into my own soul.

So I pulled down the window cover and sat and stared straight ahead. It was a long journey- ten hours and sixteen minutes precisely- and it lasted long into the night. I couldn't sleep, but that was nothing new. I watched as everyone around me fell into sleep. The man beside me snored obnoxiously loudly. His head was thrown back and his mouth hung wide open. His throat vibrated with the force of his deafening performance.

Watari had taken a different plane to a different airport on the opposite side of California. I was headed to Bakersfield, and the plan was that we would meet up in Los Angeles; all five of us.

You see, Watari had taken the liberty of recruiting three of my potential 'heirs' to assist me in the fight against the threat of bio-terrorism. He had described them and 'the finest of their ability', but I hadn't expected any less from him. He was the creator of L, after all.

I wasn't overly pleased about having to work with the people who could very well grow up to become me, L, but I did agree that they were necessary to the case. I couldn't very well turn up at the CIA claiming to be three different people. My three heirs would be my eyes, my ears, and most importantly, my face.

We met for the first time at a large hotel on the border of Los Angeles. It seemed Watari had already informed them of our plan, because they were all together in the same room and chatting about the case.

They went quiet when they saw me. I scrutinized them closely, though from habit my face was, likely as not, expressionless.

It was Watari who spoke first. "L," he said encouragingly. "These are the pupils I have chosen to assist you in this case. I shan't reveal their real names here, but at Wammy House they were known as X, Y and Z."

"Hello," I said. "I hope we can all work together in order to solve this case. For this, cooperation s necessary." I paused. "This means you do everything I say, understand?"

The three looked at each other, each with a different expression on their face. The youngest man's face portrayed sheer outrage, the young woman had one eyebrow raised, and the final man looked simply puzzled.

They weren't so bad once I began working with them. Each of them was undoubtedly brilliant, but in decidedly different ways.

Z was the oldest of the three, and looked like he was mixed-race, but I never asked. He was twenty-four, about two and a half years older than me, but he didn't make a big fuss about taking orders from 'a kid' like other people might have. In fact, out of the three he was the most willing to follow commands. He seemed to trust my ability far more than Y or X did.

Y was a woman. It might seem sexist, but I was surprised by that. She wasn't attractive by any means- her nose was too large, her hair was a plain, mousy brown that hung in a limp ponytail, and she had almost no upper-lip. I was glad of that; I didn't want any CIA operatives trying to 'score' with 'Danuve'. Y definitely wasn't what I expected her to be. She was uptight and matter-of-fact to a fault, so much so that one could label her as cold. She followed my orders with sharp sighs and sarcastic comments, but I knew she held even a grudging respect for me.

X was the youngest of the three- only seventeen years old- and I could tell he would be trouble from the start. He was the sort who would judge a person the moment he saw them, which left me with little chance of redemption. He answered every one of my requests with either a rude remark or an indignant 'why?'. Most of the time it felt as if I was babysitting, not working.

You might then wonder why I decided to stick with him throughout the case. The answer was simple: despite his obnoxious, childish behaviour, he was, by far, the most intelligent of the three heirs. He knew how to think outside the box, so much so that it almost seemed ridiculous. I knew then that he was the one who would play L. I knew that once a person started thinking ridiculously, it was then that they started thinking like a genius.

The case we had been assigned was simple. A terrorist group known as The Just War had threatened to release a lethal dose of Tuberculosis into the city's water supply as a protest against racism in America, unless the government released several 'freedom fighters' who they had imprisoned on the charge of terrorism. The FBI, with their advanced technology, had managed to track down their signals to somewhere in the east of Los Angeles- but the area was huge. It would take forever to thoroughly search the entire place. That was where we came in. It was our job to find them- through any means necessary.

Watari put his 'persuasive' skills into action and got me a job on the task force as a junior operative with the name of Harry Simpson. The man who had occupied my place beforehand had been a family man and a good worker, ad the FBI were so surprised by his sudden, unexpected change of heart, and so desperate to fill his place as soon as possible that it was surprisingly easy for me to get on the force.

I didn't much like the man in charge, Will Carson. Of course, he had no idea that I was the one pulling the strings of L, Danuve and Eraldo Coil, so he obviously felt little need to treat me with respect. He was surprised that I was so young, but then I was used to that. The very first time we had met he had laughed and pinched my cheek and said he hoped I could keep up.

"I'll try," I had replied coldly, rubbing my smarting cheek.

It wasn't that he was a bad person, really. Just too set in his ways- the embodiment of everything that irritated me. In his opinion, the only people worth listening to were white American males over the age of thirty. It didn't matter if you had a masters degree in advanced physics or an IQ of one-hundred-and-fifty, because, at the end of it all, you were still black/foreign/female/too young. He must have hated going to L, Danuve and Eraldo for help. But, as I learned, he always, _always _put his country and his people first. And if I could help them, then so be it he would get down on his knees before me.

Despite his close-minded opinions, he still managed to treat X, Y and Z with sufficient respect. It was probably because he knew they were effectively his last chance. He only had a week before a potentially life-threatening disease was released into the water supply of millions of unsuspecting people across Los Angeles.

It was an interesting case. I enjoyed it, but not everyone did. X was especially unenthusiastic about it, and the whole detective business.

One evening when we were looking over our files, he told me something I don't think I'll ever be able to forget.

"I hate you."

I look up at him. "Do you," I said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I do." X folded his arms defensively. "If it weren't for you I could be out there doing something, making something of myself. But instead I'm stuck here being forced to become someone I never wanted to be. _You._"

This seemed quite unfair. It wasn't as if I had literally strapped him to a chair and forced him to turn into L. I hadn't made anyone do _anything._

But after this moment of indignation I began to take in what X had actually said, and began to identify with it myself. I was just a little boy when I had been taken in and transformed into this _machine;_ my only purpose to serve others, never myself. I could have been anyone I wanted to be, but instead I was L. I was the first victim of Wammy House. But I knew for sure that I wouldn't be the last. X, Y and Z were evidence of that.

"You're not me," I told him, and it was the truth. He wasn't me, because I wasn't anyone. Not any more. Looking back now, maybe I never was.

X screwed up his snouted nose in annoyance and snatched up the last of the boiled sweets in the bowl on the table and stuffed them into his mouth. He glared at me, cheeks bulging. I just smiled.

X looked like he was about to make a rude remark when Wammy walked in from the kitchen, sipped tea while holding his mobile phone to his ear. He held the phone out to me.

"It's Y," he said. "She and Z have some news."

I held the phone to my ear with my thumb and forefinger. I could hear X tutting and see him rolling his eyes.

"Hello," I said.

"Harry, glad you're here," Y cut straight to the chase, using my undercover name though it wasn't really necessary. "Listen, I think we're on to something. Z's been visiting the biology and forensics department and we were looking at the records and found something interesting. The department has samples of nearly every disease and illness known, and since this case has started the research on how to prevent TB without noticeable side effects has shot up... But so has the research on how to make it. It's a tiny amount compared to the research on vaccines so no-one seems to have noticed it, but if you compare it to what it was before, the labs ability to create the disease has gone up by about one hundred and fifty per cent."

She told me the exact figures.

"One hundred and fifty two percent, Y," I corrected her.

"Whatever," Y brushed off. "Don't you see what I'm saying? I think..."

"You think there's a mole on the team."

"_Exactly." _Y sighed. "For a genius you sure catch on slowly!"

"I thought you would appreciate me letting you speak," I said innocently before hanging up.

So there was a double agent in our ranks. I couldn't say I didn't expect it. There was obviously some suspicion as to how such a small-time terrorist group had managed to acquire such a large amount of a disease that was in such rapid decline. It would also explain why Tuberculosis had been selected. It was simple enough to make, and not many people had vaccines against it since it had almost completely died out in developed areas such as L.A.

I put my phone down in the table.

"What did she say?" X demanded rudely.

"'Harry, gad you're here'," I provided obediently. "'Listen, I think we're on to something. Z's been visiting the biology and forensics department and we were looking at the records and-"

"For God's sake!" X snapped. "Y'know what? I don't even care. You can stick this case right up your obnoxious arse, _Harry." _He stood up, all set to storm out in a rage.

"Sit down, X," I said, my tone instantly cold. X glared at me, and I glared right back. He looked surprised. I saw him swallow. His eyes flickered but I never broke eye contact once. Slowly, he sat back down. "Thank you," I said.

X huffed. "So, what did she say? And lets have this year, shall we?"

"There's a mole on the team," I told him emotionlessly. "Somebody is making the T.B., and I'm sure you know who for."

"Okay," X replied slowly and just as emotionlessly. The tension in the room was so thick you could suffocate on it, and I saw Watari clear his throat silently, obviously concerned. "Do you have any suspects?"

I smiled. "Why are you asking me? I'm just a junior. You're the detective, L."

X snorted. A smirk twisted his tanned face. "_I_ think that our mole's likely to be in the forensics department. That way he'd have access to all those stupid microbes. He'll also be relatively high up on the team, and a long-time employee. It's the only way he'd be able to get away with it without having any questions asked. Plus the top guys must trust him, or else he would've been kept under surveillance and found out long ago."

"I see," I smiled. He really didn't need me, did he. "What makes you so sure it's a man?"

"He has a penis," X said sarcastically. He rolled his eyes. "Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to. Whether it's male of female doesn't matter. It's just easier so say 'he'. Don't get all feminist on me."

"I wasn't planning on it," I told him. "Well, it looks like you know what you're doing. I'll leave you to it."

And I did. Most of my time I spent working with Z, the most unquestioning of the trio. Despite my irritating want to continue alongside X, he was simply too frustrating to be with for too long. He was too clever. He might even grow to be cleverer than me, and being with him reminded me of that. Besides my intelligence I had nothing, and when I was with X I couldn't feel different any more. I couldn't feel special. I couldn't feel like L. And when I wasn't L I wasn't anyone, so I couldn't work with X. We were too similar to ever get along.

On Tuesday, three days before the big day, Z and I found the mole.

When I brought it to attention, I found that X had dug him out a whole day earlier.

–

_**Edit: Okay, what on earth? How come every time I write Tuberculosis my laptop automatically splits it into two words? I've fixed it now, so sorry for any confusion caused!**_

**First of all, I _know_ that I wrote that the crisis was in New York and not Los Angeles, but it's been so long since then, and I'd already written everything about L.A. And California before I realised my mistake. I will change the previous chapter to match this later, but I have a new laptop, and the internet often causes it to crash (it's not a very _good_ laptop), which makes things difficult. I'm sure I will have a huge palaver in trying to upload this chapter!**

**And secondly... **

**I'm so sorry. I really, truly am. I didn't mean to leave it this long to update- it's been a long time, I know. Now you know how serious I was about this writers block! Plus school has really been piling the work on. I've discovered something about myself thanks to this chapter, though: something that I already had a sneaking suspicion of.**

**I can't write crime drama.**

**But, I'll do my best, and hopefully this case will be wrapped up next chapter! I've known for a long time how I want the case to end, but I won't spoil it for you! I'll just say it was inspired by David Bowie's 'Starman' song. As soon as I heard the chorus break out, I thought '_That _ part would be awesome in slow-motion with that music in the background!'. Too bad it's not a film and I can't add music or slow-mos!**

**But speaking of David Bowie, his music actually helped me to visualize this story a lot. That is pretty odd, because I don't really like his style of music- I prefer classic rock- but I'm the sort of person who'll listen to a song and make up little music videos in my head to go along with it. A few David Bowie songs remind me of this story. When I listened to some of his songs, L's face kept popping into my head for some reason.**

**It started with 'Life on Mars'. I began thinking of seeing everything that happened in L's life (in quick flashes, of course) to that song, ending with his death, and maybe it was just my awesome mind-music-video-making-powerz, but I just thought 'Wow, it really fits! So I listened to a few others, and while most of them I really didn't like, I thought 'Ashes To Ashes' went well with his alcohol phase, and as I said 'Starman' reminded me of this case, or at least the end. You'll have to wait for that, though! And the song 'Ziggy Stardust' is pretty much a _description_ of L, if you take the idea of Ziggy being a guitar player as a metaphor...**

**Anyway, I'm blathering! I _never_ write songfics, and I never will. I actually really hate them. But if I make a scene and then hear a song that I think fits really well to it, I want to tell people about it! If you're curious about any of the songs I mentioned, just youtube them. You might wonder what on earth I was smoking though!**

**Well, sorry for the enormous author's note- that's what happens when I take such a long break! I hope you will read and review, even though maybe I don't deserve it after abandoning you for so long. I promise I'll try to do better in future!**


	22. Catch 22

**When you have to choose between your heart and your head...**

**--**

The mole was a man called Gregory Porter. He was a senior pathologist in the forensics department and had worked for the CIA for nearly ten years without incident. He confessed almost immediately when confronted with evidence and Y's no-nonsense attitude, but persistently refused to reveal just exactly _where _we could find the terrorists, or even the TB.

"Where are they?" X demanded, slamming his hand on the desk.

"_I don't know."_ Gregory was near tears, and I didn't blame him. Over three hours of X's screaming would be enough to drive anyone insane.

"Oh, you know," X hissed threateningly, zooming in so that he was almost nose-to-nose with Greg. "And if you don't tell me..."

"What? What will you do?" Greg said, suddenly indignant. "Co-operating with terrorists- we both know I'm never going to step through these doors ever again. And the top cats are going to make sure I keep quiet about my time here, by any means necessary. And if they don't get me, those terrorists will once they find out I was caught." He stared X right in the eye, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. "I'll be dead within a month."

"Then why did you do it?" I piped up from my chair in the corner of the interrogation room. X had insisted I kept myself at a distance. This was _his_ case, after all.

Gregory sighed and let his head drop against his chest. "They threatened... my family... my _children._ Have you any idea what that's like? My youngest's just turning five next week. Happy Birthday- bang. A bullet through the head." The look of hopelessness on his face was shattering.

"You dickhead." X shoved Gregory back in his chair. The handcuffs that held his wrists down rattled. "Because of you, hundreds of kids are going to die. But all you could think about was your own little brat. You selfish bastard," X said with contempt.

"I'm _sorry,"_ Gregory shouted. "What do you want me to say? I'm _sorry..._"

"I _want_ you to say where these 'Just War' arseholes are so we can get in there and kill them!" X snapped. His voice had faded from a shout to a throaty snarl. I guessed all that screaming had gotten to him. I took my lollipop out of my mouth to speak.

"Stop them, X," I said. "_Stop_ them."

"Whatever," X grumbled, pulling a face at me.

"I told you, I don't _know _where they are," Gregory sighed. "Look, I didn't want this to happen. They came to me, not the other way around."

"How did they get in contact with you?" I asked, climbing off my chair and walking towards the two of them. X stepped in front of me, instantly on the offensive as usual.

"My cell phone, and email," Greg said. "And don't bother asking if it can be traced, I already tried. They said they've bugged my laptop and phone, that they can monitor everything I'm doing, so I can't go to the police. I can't take a risk when they say something like that. Not when my son and daughter have their heads on the chopping block."

"Do you know how to get in touch with them?" X demanded. Greg looked at me when he answered.

"No. I don't contact them. They just send me the orders and I've got no choice but to follow them," he said.

"What sort of orders do they give you?"

"Hey!" X cut in suddenly. He gave me a little push. "_I'm _ the one in charge here, _Harry_, so you'd better learn to hold your tongue and leave the talking to me. _I _ask the questions around here, understand?"

"Understood, sir," I said. "I just thought it would be helpful if, for example, Mr Porter knew where the TB was being stored. He'd have to send it to The Just War somehow after all. If we can find the storage, then we can stop the outbreak, simple as that."

X opened and closed his mouth, incredulous. I could tell by the look on his face that he was desperate to lash out and probably punch me. Then he turned to Gregory, grabbed his shoulders and roared "_Do you know?", _spraying his fat face with flecks of spit. He was obviously taking his anger out on him.

"I... I delivered it myself, in batches. Maritone Docks, pier thirty-five. I was instructed to leave them on a bench there," Greg said uncertainly.

"That makes sense. It would have to be near a reservoir," X mumbled to himself.

"How long would the batches have lasted outside in the open,, air Gregory?" I asked.

"Not... Not long," he admitted. "A few hours at most, especially if it was warm. If they wanted to keep it alive they would have to freeze it somehow... But I don't know where they'd be able to that near the docks."

I took my phone out of my pocket and quickly pressed in the number. "Danuve," I said into the receiver dangling by my ear. "Maritone Docks, pier thirty-five. I need you to find me somewhere, anywhere within three hours walking distance of there that has the ability to freeze things on a large scale. Thank you." I put my phone back in my pocket and smiled.

X glowered at me. "Well, she'd better find it fast. Or else tomorrow midday, the whole of Los Angeles goes down."

It took half a day for Y to pinpoint the exact place, and even then we couldn't be precisely sure. But we couldn't afford to waste any more time. In less than ten hours the TB would be released into the public.

Y was fairly certain that the TB was being kept in a closed-down warehouse that, once upon a time, stored meat ready for shipping. It was one of several places around the area that had low security, an electricity supply, and working freezers; but it was the closest to the reservoir, which raised it's possibility of being the storage place by almost forty-five per cent.

It took another six hours to get there, as the traffic was particularly bad. X was annoyed by my obvious lack of anxiety- his brow and upper lip were shining with sweat and he couldn't keep his hands still. It was really quite funny. Y and Z had gone in separate cars just as a matter of safety, but I couldn't imagine that they were as worked up as X. But then, maybe they enjoyed their work.

We met up- Carson, Gregory, and X and me- about a mile from the warehouse in a small, run-down cafe. Z and Y were keeping in touch with us from different places across the area using their laptops and mobile phones.

"L, I've managed to hack into the CCTV cameras around the warehouse and reservoir, I'm transmitting them to you now." Z's voice was crackly over the the poor reception.

"Thanks, Eraldo," X said. He smirked at the shocked look on Carson's face. "What? You thought we wouldn't figure out that we weren't the only detective on this case? We _are_ the world's greatest, you know. Really, you should know better. As he said that I felt a little of the resentment I had for X ebb away. It felt so good to see Carson get put in his place.

Several black and white, static pictures popped up on my screen, along with a link to a picture of a smiley yellow character giving the thumbs-up sign, from Z.

"A team is in there now. They're going to disable the timer to stop the TB being released," Carson said loudly, trying in vain to regain authority. I looked at X and we shared a smile, and it was almost as if things were all right between us.

We watched the screen for a few minutes, seeing people walking innocently by. Any one of them could have been a terrorist. The Carson's phone rang. He answered it with a grin, full of confidence that the whole incident was over. But as the muffled voice on the end of the line continued, the smile faded from his face and as replaced with one of horror.

He hung up on the person on the line. Then he slammed his phone down on the table, making the knives and forks clatter. "_Shit,"_ he cursed. "They've found the TB all right. Somehow The Just War have managed to piss around with the water pipes under the house to make the water from the sink to flow into the reservoir or something like that."

X rolled his eyes and I understood exactly how he felt. It didn't sound like Carson had been listening at all.

"Anyway, turns out there's a series of bombs placed all around the warehouse, and they're connected to the timer. Unless we disable them, we can't stop the timer from going off and releasing the TB."

And in a snap all the work we'd done over the past week, all the rushing and sleepless nights, was twisted into one enormous waste of time. The whole case was a big grey area once again. I should have known better. I should have known that the terrorists wouldn't want to leave any evidence behind- and what better way to make certain of that than with a bomb? As soon as the TB was released, the bombs would go off, destroying the warehouse and anything that could have convicted anyone in the process.

And if anyone tried to disable the timer, well, more fool them.

Carson had turned white as a sheet, and Gregory was whispering hysterically to himself. "Oh God, no, no, no..." But there was nothing I could do. We were six hours away from the precinct and the timer would go off in less than four. We didn't have enough time.

And while I was silently resigning myself, X picked up Carson's phone and clicked 'redial'.

"Hey," he said snappily. "You still in the building? Good. I want you to scan the whole area and send it to my laptop, got it? I want to know where all of the bombs are and where the timer is. Because I'm coming over there."

He dropped the phone down on the table and folded his arms smugly. He was obviously waiting for me to ask 'why', but I didn't. So he told me anyway.

"I studied weapons when I was at Wammy's. I know how to deactivate a bomb, no problem. All I need is some gloves and a pair of pliers. Just leave it to me."

"He's telling the truth," Y bleeped over the laptop. "He was trained specially for it."

I began to smile despite myself. X was really something else. It looked like we might just get away with it after all. But Carson had other ideas.

"Woah, woah, woah!" he cried, grabbing X and shaking him. "You're the _detective!_ You can't go in there, it's against regulations."

"Would you rather run the risk of letting hundreds of people die? Yeah, you wouldn't drink the water- you'd know it was contaminated. But would your family? Your wife? Parents? They'd drink it, wouldn't they," X said defensively. "Sure, you might lose your job if you let me go. But if you don't, you definitely will."

"But..." Carson said feebly. His grip on X's upper arm weakened noticeably. "But you're L."

"No, I'm not," X said quietly, and I knew then exactly what he was going to do. He turned to me and nodded. "He is."

Carson dropped X's arm as if he was red hot. He stared from him to me. Gregory did the same. I sighed and stood up.

"I am L," I admitted. "I took on the identity of Harry Simpson in order to keep my head down. As X said, I am the world's greatest." A small smile took over my face as Carson did his goldfish impression for the second time that day.

"X?" he said hoarsely. He looked at X.

"That's me," he said proudly. He smirked at me. "I'm not him." He picked up Carson's phone and put it in his pocket. With a determined grin he turned to us. "I'll be call you in twenty minutes."

And casually, without a care in the world, he walked out of the cafe.

"L? L, what's going on?" Z and Y were interrogating me over the laptop. Both Gregory and Carson jumped when they heard them, as if they'd forgotten all about them.

"Get over here now, you two," I said. "I'll explain then."

Z arrived first, after about ten minutes. By this time Carson's team had sent me the scans of the warehouse, along with photographs that showed each of the bombs. There was twelve in total- enough to do a lot of damage. Carson set his team about evacuating the surrounding area.

"Will X be okay...?" Z whispered, and for the first time since we met it sounded like he didn't trust me. He and X were close, I knew that. Z was the only one who could calm X down from one of his rants. Like his big brother. I figured it wouldn't be right of me to lie to him.

"I don't see any reason why he wouldn't be," I replied. "He was trained for this."

"Yeah," Z said. He raised his voice. "Yeah, you're right."

Y showed up just as I got X's call.

"I'm here," he said.

"You're very calm all of a sudden," I remarked.

"Shut up!" X snapped. "This isn't the time. I'm going in now, you're going to have to tell me where the bombs are placed, okay?"

I nodded, beginning to feel claustrophobic as everyone huddled round me, eager to hear what was being said. I switched on the speaker-phone. "The first one is on your left, as soon as you enter the main doors."

"Where?"

"To your left."

"I can't _see_ it!"

Y sighed and snatched the phone form my hands. "X, it's next to a fire extinguisher, at the skirting board," she said, giving me a withering look as she did so. There was a series of muffles over the phone as X presumably searched around.

"Got it!" His voice was triumphant. "Okay, okay, okay..." Those words weren't meant for us. I could hear him fumbling with himself, hissing slowly in and out, clearly nervous, betraying his tough-guy act.

"H-hey, Y, there's a code here," X said, grunting as he moved down to look at the bomb. "Hang on a sec, I'm going to read it out. 1FY..."

Y took a pen out from her lapel and quickly wrote the code down on her hand, repeating each letter and number as X read them out, making sure she had got it just right. "99R4... Got it," she said decisively. She turned to Z and held up her inked palm. "Can you crack this?"

Z raised an eyebrow. He sat down and took my laptop onto his knee. "Five minutes," he said.

I found myself taking a back seat with Gregory and Carson. I didn't like it. It didn't feel right. I wasn't in control any more, and it scared me, just a little. Even though I knew X, Y and Z were more than up to the job, it still scared me.

"Where's the next one?" X asked.

"_Wait, _X, we're trying to figure something out," Y snapped into the phone. She leaned over Z's shoulder to get a better look at the computer screen.

"Got it!" Z declared. "What... what is that?"

"L, get over here!" Y called. She sounded panicked. Well, as panicked as Y _could_ sound.

I shuffled closer to them and look at the laptop. A timer flashed on the screen, along with a small button underneath it that read 'detonate'.

"What is it?" Y asked. I already knew, and so did she. So did everyone there. We just didn't want to admit to it. It was the countdown, and when it reached zero, the TB would be released and the warehouse would go up in flames.

"It can't be," Z spoke first. His voice was shaking. "We still have three hours. They promised us noon..." That was Z's tragic flaw. He took everything at face value. The Just War had promised us noon, but noon wasn't what we were getting.

We had fourteen minutes.

Thirteen...

I quickly clicked onto the box at the bottom on the screen, bringing up the pictures of the warehouse. "X, the next bomb is in the first room on the right, taped underneath the desk."

"Where _were_ you?" X's unassuming voice rung out angrily. Of course. He had no idea. He thought he still had three hours. "Anyway, I managed to find another bomb and deactivate it while you were busy doing whatever. It had the same code on as the last one. Where did you say the next one was?"

On the small side-screen, the timer had almost reached eleven minutes.

Z suddenly snatched the phone.

"_X, get out of there now!"_ he screamed urgently. Y forced it out of his grasp.

"What the hell?" X sounded irritated.

"X, get to the next bomb," Y said. Her voice was shaking.

"Yeah, yeah." X footsteps echoed. "Found it. It has the same code on it, just so you know. Hey, did you find out what it meant?"

"Just deactivate it, X." Y was blinking very fast. Z was slumped over with his head in his hands and breathing very deeply.

"I'm on it, baby."

"And don't call me baby!" Y forced a laugh. A single tear slid down her cheek.

A few clicks. Nine minutes... Eight and a half...

"Done. How many more?"

"N-Nine," Y said quietly. "The next one, go out of the room, it's all the way up the end of the warehouse. There's a pile of cleaning equipment, it's next to that."

Eight minutes.

"I can't find it," X grumbled.

"It's next to a bucket and mop."

Fumble, clatter.

"Which one?"

Seven.

"Where are you?"

"I'm next to a bucket and mop, like you said."

"Lift it out of the way, it's beside the vacuum cleaner."

Crash.

"Oops!"

Six.

Carson and Gregory were having to hold Z back.

"Get out of there! X, get _out!"_

"What's he talking about?" X was confused. And worried.

"It's nothing." Y wiped her eyes. "Hurry up, X."

Five.

Z collapsed in his chair, sobbing. For the first time since we entered the cafe, the woman behind the counter was giving us funny looks.

Over the phone we heard a few clicks.

"Done."

Four. Minutes. Left.

"L," Carson whispered as Y went on to describe the next bomb's hiding place. "We don't have time. There's no way that kid'll be able to find and deactivate all those bombs, as well as turn off the timer in four minutes. Think about it."

I _was_ thinking about it. And the more I thought, the more hopeless it seemed. Carson was right. X wasn't going to make it in time. There was no way out of it. Whatever decision I made, somebody was going to die today.

"I'm here, where is it?"

"It's in the corner, on the ceiling."

"Oh, _how_ am I going to reach _that?"_ A series of curses followed. Z had gone very, very quiet.

Three minutes.

"L..."

"Just a little longer," I whispered. "Just wait a little longer." It was useless and I knew it. X couldn't find and disable eight bombs in three- two and a half- minutes. We didn't have any choice. I took the phone.

"X, get out of the building," I said.

"What?"

"I said get out of the building. Now."

"Hey, you can't tell _me_ what to do! Who do you think you are anyway, you-"

"X, listen to me."

Two minutes.

"The timer is going to go off in two minutes."

"Wh... What?" X was suddenly breathing very hard. He stuttered nonsense for a moment before letting out a nervous laugh. "That... that's not true, is it? You're just trying to scare me."

"Why would I do that?" My voice was as emotionless as ever.

"I... We have until midday!"

"X, get _out_ of that building right now," I ordered.

One minute.

There was a long pause. It felt like forever, but the timer told me it was only five seconds.

"X get out of there!" Y suddenly shrieked.

I heard him swallow. "O... Okay."

Thirty seconds.

The sound of X's heavy Doc Martin trainers pelting the floor as he ran filled the empty cafe. Z was whispering incoherently to himself. His hands were clasped together. It looked like he was praying.

Twenty seconds.

I could no longer differentiate between the thudding of X's trainers and the pounding of my heart.

Ten seconds. It sounded like X had reached the door but was having trouble getting it open.

"L..." Y

"L..." Carson.

"_L." _Z. He looked at me helplessly, his eyes shimmering with tears and the saddest look of acceptance I'd ever seen. "He's not going to make it."

Five seconds. I had to make a decision between my heart and my head.

In the end, I chose my head.

I pressed the 'detonate' button.

We heard the explosion from the cafe. Seconds later a huge pillar of smoke began to float up from the where the warehouse had once been. It was gone now, and had taken both the TB and X with it. I stood up and walked towards the cafe window, watching as the air turned black. I saw my reflection in the window. Why didn't I look sad?

"Case closed," I whispered.

A haunting silence fell over the cafe. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman behind the counter dashing outside to see what was going on, the bell on the door tinkling as she went. What felt like minutes passed. We barely breathed.

I thought it would be Z who acted first, but it wasn't. It was Y. Slowly she released her hug on the trembling Z and stood up straight. She turned to me. I didn't look back at her. Through the reflection of the glass and could see her walking over to me, faster and faster.

I turned around just fast enough to see her fist shooting forward. Her knuckles connected with the side of my jaw with enough force to knock my head back against the window. A brilliant, blinding white exploding before my eyes and I almost fell over. I steadied myself, not saying a single word. Slowly I raised my hand to finger the deep gash Y's ring had made in my cheek.

Y hit me again. Except this time, I hit her back. And then we leapt at each other, attacking each other. I was bigger and stronger than Y, but her sheer fury took me by surprise. She was screaming and screaming as she punched and kicked out at me. I grabbed her wrist, whirled her round and slammed her into the window- something I had learned at Judo. She kicked back at me and wrenched her arms away. When she turned around I punched her hard. It made her bleed from the mouth, but I don't think she even noticed as she flew at me again.

The woman who own the shop came rushing back in, shouting abuse as Y and me grappled with each other. She, Carson and Gregory forced the two of us apart. I stood there, breathing heavily, blood dripping from my chin, watching as Carson and the shop owner struggled to hold Y back. She wouldn't stop screaming.

Eventually her thrashing died down to a weak, tired wriggle and she slumped over, hands on her knees, panting. Carson nervously let her go. Her head raised to look at me. There was no sadness in her expression. No hatred, no anger. Nothing. I had a feeling her expression mirrored mine completely.

I could only stand there as every turned to stare at me- except Z, who was still slumped over in his chair, completely comatose. The rise and fall of his back as he breathed was the only thing that told us that he hadn't died along with X.

After a long, long time the shop owner said, shakily, "Get out of my cafe."

I walked over to the table, shut the laptop- which now read 'Bombs detonated'- slid it under my arm and limped out of the shop, just like she'd asked. Behind me I heard Carson talking.

"That kid... What was his name?"

The only reply he got, the only one he _could_ get, was "I don't know."

I hobbled down the street, my legs aching from where Y had kicked me, in the opposite direction to the hundreds of people running towards the scene of the explosion, desperate for a better look. How amusing, L thought, that they would never know just how close they came to a city-wide crisis.

As I wandered back to the hotel, I thought of X and waited to feel sad. Guilty. Anything. But nothing came.

It was then that I knew that I had lost my soul.

–

**Oh God, I'm so happy this bio-terrorist case is over! Forgive me, but it really didn't inspire me at all. Maybe that's why this chapter isn't quite a good as it should be. I think maybe I picked it up a bit towards the end, but overall it's not very good. Hopefully I can win you all back with the next chapter- I have a much more exciting idea for it!**

**Okay, truthfully though, how many of you were expecting X to die? I had it planned out from the start! In a way, I only gave life to X so that I could take it away. That's... really horrible! You might just see Y and Z again, though...**

**Anyway, on to the part non of you care about. I had my cervical cancer vaccination yesterday (one of three I'm going to have over the next year). It. Was. Wonderful. I have an unnatural love of injections. The feel of that long, cold needle sliding into the soft joint between my should and upper arm gives me a rush of pleasure that is unmatched by any other! My arm still hurts a bit now, but hey, I managed to write this all right!**

**Back to the story, I have been inspired by both 'The Kite Runner' and 'Spooks' (a British TV show about MI5) for the next chapter of L's life. It's the little words I hear that form a big picture in my head!**

**Please read and review as usual. I know this chapter wasn't as good as it should have been, and I'm sorry. I just can't write crime! The next chapter will be extra-good to make up for it, I promise!**


	23. A Blank Grave

**Nobody from Wammy House can die, because legally, they never existed..**

--

I didn't go back to England right away after the bio-terror case. I went north, to Stockton, about a hundred miles out from San Francisco. I didn't tell anyone where I was going or why, because when I set off I didn't know. All I wanted was to be on my own. Stockton was a place for me to bury my memories, and I wanted to keep it that way.

After a couple of weeks Watari tracked me down and showed up at my hotel door, but I sent him away. I didn't take any work for a long time- at least a month. I just drifted from one run-down hotel to another, spending most of my days shut away in my hotel room, trying to feel but unable to. I really hadn't noticed how much of myself I had lost. I could almost see the pieces of my past self lying at my feet, too sharp and painful to pick up again.

Z went back to England, to Wammy House, and Watari told me Y had gone to Canada the day after X's death, drowning herself in her work like I had done so many times before. Gregory went back to his family and Carson didn't lose his job. Life continued as normal.

X didn't have a funeral, not that I would have attended it if he had. There was nothing left of him to bury, and even if there had been he wouldn't have been allowed a proper grave, with a name and a photograph. That was a given for people like us. We were the select few who were born to serve the world without recognition or a face to put to our names. We couldn't die because legally, we didn't exist. I thought about what waited for me in death. A blank grave in a yard of thousands of others, each as identical as the last.

I stayed in Stockton for six months in my self-inflicted solitary confinement, until one day in August an unexpected arrival turned up at my door. At the time I was staying in a filthy motel with a motorway on each side of my room. Most of my money and my laptop had been stolen weeks before, when I had returned to the hostel I had been staying at to find my whole room turned upside-down; I had been living off my credit card ever since. It seemed Watari had been topping it up regularly, and for that I was grateful. I had stopped shaving as a sort of experiment, seeing if I ever got more than a few wispy hairs on my chin, but I never did.

Basically, I wasn't exactly at my best when Y showed up at my door.

She looked as smart and business-like as I remembered her. Her hair was longer and her cheeks pastier and her eyes more tired, but overall she seemed relatively unchanged. I knew from experience that looks could be deceiving.

She marched right past me, practically throwing me aside as she entered the single room I had lived in for the past three days, leaving me staring at the empty space where she had been a few seconds before.

"I don't want to be here either, you know," she said right away. "But I have something for you."

"Oh?" I closed the door and turned around. "If it's another punch in the face, I don't want it."

"Don't try to be funny." Y glared at me stonily. She took an envelope out of her pocket and held it out to me. "Here."

I took it. "What is it?"

"An invitation."

"To what?"

"Just open it!" she snapped. She swept down the greying, moth-eaten sofa and sat heavily down on it. She tightened her ponytail. As I opened the letter I saw her, out of the corners of my eyes, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she scrutinized my current 'home'.

It was an invitation to Z's funeral.

I didn't even blink. "I see."

Y got up. "Aren't you going to ask how it happened?" she said quietly. I didn't reply, and her eyes hardened with contempt. "Car crash," she said acidly.

"Oh," I said. Paused. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You might like to be, but you're not," Y replied. "We were trained together, you know." She was talking more to herself now, staring straight ahead. "X, Y and Z. _Five years, _we worked together. Now I'm the only one left." She turned to me. "_Six months," _she whispered. "Six months, and I've lost everything I had in the world. But then, you know what that's like."

I looked at her properly for the first time. I didn't believe when I saw her face that she really knew all that had happened to me in my life, but for that one split second after she said it, I'd believed that she did. She was just making a wild stab in the dark. Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe she could tell I had known loss from merely the way I looked, talked, held myself.

"It was X," Y went on. "He was the driving force behind us, really. I was the organiser, but he was the real star. Z relied on him, to keep him going, and after he died... Z just got worse and worse every day. That's why..."

"You think he killed himself," I stated, walking over the the kitchen area and pressing down the timer on the kettle.

Y shot me a look. "So what if I do?" she said. "It's not like it'll make a difference now."

I took two stained mugs from the plastic mug-rack on the counter. "Would you like a cup of tea?" I asked.

"No," Y said. She located the fridge underneath the worktop and opened it. "Got any beer?"

"I don't drink," I replied.

Y found an old bottle of lager that the previous inhabitant of the room must have left in the back of the fridge. She opened it violently with a broken bottle-opener. She cut her finger and swore. As she leaned back on the counter I saw the look of exhausted desperation on her face. The look of someone longing for an escape. She raised the bottle to her lips, but I stopped it with my palm and lowered it.

"What?" she demanded.

"Don't drink that," I whispered.

"Why?"

"Just don't." I took the bottle from her unresisting hand and poured it's entire contents down the sink. The sink was blocked and it gathered, foamy, at the surface, mixing with stale water and ancient leftovers.

Y looked at me, then sighed with impatience. "Jesus," she hissed, pressing her hands to her head and pacing up and down the tiny room. "You're... _You're..."_

I looked at her with my big, questioning eyes. Smiled.

"Just come to the funeral, okay?" she said, heading for the door. She turned back to me when she was in the corridor. "Oh, and the next time you disappear, try to cover your tracks a little more carefully, _Ryuzaki."_

The door closed. I nodded to myself decisively. Then I took the empty lager bottle from the counter and dropped it into the bin.

Z's funeral was a small, insignificant affair. It was held on a cloudy Wednesday morning, in a beaten-down graveyard in the north of Scotland. Watari obviously couldn't allow him to be buried too close to Wammy House. The church had been closed down for the day, and the vicar paid off and made to fill in all sorts of papers, signing himself into secrecy.

I purposely arrived late. I watched the whole thing from a distance, barely able to hear the sombre words of condolence the vicar had no doubt recited a hundred times before. The whole graveyard was empty save for the three people gathered around the new grave, made to look as weather-beaten and old as every other decayed memento that filled the greying yard. Watari, Y and the vicar himself.

And me, of course. And L.

I watched the whole ceremony from the very edge of the graveyard, picking absent-mindedly at the moss that lined the stone walls that enclosed the place. A head popped up over the wall.

"Hello," said the little girl, her plaits swinging as she clung to the uneven stones. She looked unnaturally bright and sunny compared to the colourless graveyard equally dull sky. She titled her head to one side, blinking her big dark eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

I raised my head from my slouch to look at her. "Where should I start," I murmured.

"You look funny," the girl said. "You look like my teddy."

"Do I."

"Yeah." The girl paused; then she heaved herself up on top of the wall and swung her skinny legs around to hang in front of her. She had bandages on her knees. I looked warily over at the funeral. The vicar was making hurried gestures with his hands. It seemed like he wanted to get the whole thing over and done with as soon as possible. The little girl was wearing a bright red pinafore, and stuck out like a sore thumb in the grey graveyard. I had a rough idea to the lengths Watari would be willing to go to to keep her quiet about the scene that she wasn't supposed to have witnessed.

"You shouldn't be here," I told her.

The girl made a rude noise with her tongue. "Why?" she demanded.

"You'll get in trouble if you stay."

The girl leaned forward so that she was almost hanging upside down, staring up the curtain of hair that hung over my forehead to frown at my face. "Why do you look so sad?" she asked innocently. I didn't say anything. The girl rummaged in her pocket, brought out a purple lollipop and held it out to me.

"Here," she said. "I only licked it once, but it's okay."

I looked at the lollipop for a second, then reached out and plucked it from her hand with my thumb and forefinger. I unwrapped it and put it in my mouth, ignoring the bits of fluff it had accumulated in the girl's pocket. Immediately I felt better, which surprised me. I hadn't even realised I was feeling tense before.

"It's good," I said hoarsely, smiling briefly. The girl nodded encouragingly; and the funeral came to a close as the vicar and Watari turned back to the church, their heads bowed. Y glanced my way. I knew she had seen the little girl, but she didn't go to inform Watari. Instead, she nodded my way, as if she understood something that I myself did not. Then she followed Watari towards the church gates.

"Is she your girlfriend?" the little girl piped up suddenly. I looked up at her.

"No."

"Oh." The girl nodded, pretending not to be disappointed. "She was ugly anyway."

For some reason that hit me harder than it should have. I suddenly remembered all the times as a child I had been labelled ugly. It was such an simple, stupid word- for children like the little girl beside me. For children with bright smiles and nice clothes, ugly was a whole different world.

"She's not," I said quietly. I don't think the girl heard.

"What's your name?" she asked.

I glanced at her. "...Harry," I told her.

"'Harry' what?" she urged.

"Potter," I said deliberately, smiling a little.

"No it's not!"

"Yes, it is."

The little girl grinned, baffled. "You're weird."

"I have been told that before, you know," I said. I turned to her. "Go away. If you stay here bad things will happen to you."

"What?"

"If anyone finds out you saw me, somebody might pay you an unexpected visit in the middle of the night," I told her. "Meaning, your life could be in danger."

The little girl's face had suddenly lost all it's humour. "You're joking," she said, though she looked almost scared. Her little shoulders were rising and falling slightly faster as her breathing quickened. She certainly _wanted_ me to be joking.

"I'm not joking," I said. "Now go home, quickly. And don't let anyone see you leaving this place." Maybe I was being harsh, but I didn't want her to be the next person to end up on a slab in a mortuary because of me.

The little girl nodded and swung her legs back over the wall, lowering herself down. "Bye," she said.

"Thank you for the lollipop," I said after a moment's pause, staring straight ahead. It was only right to thank her.

"It's okay. I don't like the purple ones anyway," I heard her say, and then I heard her stumbling footsteps as she turned and ran back the way she had came. I listened until I couldn't hear her any more; then I wandered over to Z's grave. It was blank, of course.

I stood there, just stood, sucking the lollipop, and watched the grave for a while. It's disguise was so clever. Nobody would ever know it was new. It looked as old and weathered as any of the graves in the graveyard. And nobody ever noticed new graves, because nobody cared.

I waited for a long, long time to feel something, but I knew it was futile. I wished I could remember how to cry.

"Hey."

I recognised the voice as Y's. It sounded small, tired. Resigning. I didn't turn around, and a moment later a sun-spotted hand touched my shoulder.

"You actually showed up," Y said. She tried to force humour into her voice, but it just sounded like she was trying not to cry. She stood beside me. "That was a good thing you did. The girl."

"She wouldn't have understood what was going on anyway," I whispered.

Y's eyes flickered towards 's headstone. "They wouldn't let me leave any flowers," she mumbled.

"I'm sorry."

I thought she would flip, like the last time she had when I said that, but she didn't. Instead, she smiled at me, sadly. "Don't be," she said. "It wasn't your fault. X, Z... what happened to them wasn't your fault. You're not to blame."

"I-"

"The Just War put your finger on the detonator and they made you press it. And it was Z's hands that were on the steering wheel. Not yours," Y went on, interrupting me.

"I know," I said. I didn't look at her.

"Listen, about before..." Y took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her ponytail. "I... apologise. I was angry, I wasn't thinking straight. And, just so you know... if any one of us, X, Z or me, had been in your position... we would all have done the exact same thing you did." She stepped closer to me. "You didn't have a choice," she whispered.

I nodded. Though most of me barely heard her confession, a small part did hear, and was silently thankful. But I didn't say that. Instead I asked, "Why are you suddenly so forgiving?"

Y chuckled humourlessly. "I do my job, L. If nothing else, I do my job. And that's what you do too. This," -she gestured limply at Z's grave- "is sometime what we have to do to ensure the job gets done."

I stared at her. It was as if she'd put all the subconscious thoughts in my head and condensed them into a few simple sentences. Looking at Y, it felt like looking at a stronger, saner me. A me less far gone. I looked at Z's grave and sighed. There were people like me and Y who could detach themselves from the world around them and focus on getting the job done, no matter what. And then there were people like Z who were bruised by every little knock along the way. Or maybe that wasn't true at all. Maybe I was just so bruised that my whole body had turned numb and stopped feeling altogether. I wondered how long it would take Y to stop feeling too.

The 'Pokemon' theme tune started playing. Y took her phone out of her pocket and answered it. She had a long, business-like conversation. I zoned out, put up my invisible wall and blocked the world out, like I often did when I was alone. When Y hung up, I turned to her.

"New case?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "Human trafficking. Better get to it." She began to walk away, but then she stopped, turned and smiled at me. "Want to come along?"

And on a whim, I replied, "Yes."

–

**This chapter actually turned out longer than I had expected! Okay, that's a lie. I intended it to be this long, however, I have had to move some of the stuff I had planned for this chapter over to the next, as I suddenly had an urge to add the conversation L had with the little girl.**

**Next chapter: I am really looking forward to writing it! The whole idea of a human trafficking case excites me, and the fact that I have added Y to the case is all part of my plan! The bio-terror case didn't really inspire me and so I struggled to write it, but this sounds like it's going to be _fun (_in a dark, twisted sort of way...)!**

**I'm also looking forward to working with Y a little more and developing her character. At the moment she's a bit of a 'cold fish' and from what I have seen, so far people don't have much of an opinion on her either way. I want to change that! In a good way or a bad way, you'll just have to wait and see...**

**Please review as usual, if you have the time. Even though this is more of a 'build-up' chapter it still contains some vital information, so I'd like to know what you thought of it!**


	24. Chicago Nights

**L learned more about Y than he'd intended to...**

–

Y and I left for Illinois less than a week after Z's funeral. She took an Easyjet plane. I drew the short straw and agreed to take a ferry- Y said just looking at a boat made her feel seasick. As my luck would have it, things turned out to be the same for me. I spent the majority of the cruelly long journey vomiting violently into the yellow bags provided under the chairs. After five days I had used up all the bags I could come across. After that I just puked over the side of the ferry. I had become quite well known among the staff and passengers by the time the eight-day long journey came to an end. There wasn't a person aboard who hadn't complained about me at one point.

After docking at North Carolina, I took a series of trains into the heart of Illinois, and then several dozen taxis to reach Chicago. The final cab driver said he couldn't take me the rest of the way- his shift was nearly over- so I ended up having to walk for four hours pressed up against the side of busy motorway in order to reach the motel Y and I agreed to meet at.

Y burst out laughing when she saw me.

"What happened to _you?_ You're a wreck!" she said delightedly. Oddly enough, I didn't see the funny side. I stalked over to the sofa and clambered onto it without taking my hands out of my pockets. I sat in my usual crouched position and took a deep breath, relaxing a little. But just a little.

Y disappeared into the dingy kitchen and emerged two minutes later with a mug in either hand. She put one on the coffee table in front of me.

"Thank you," I said, picking it up, though the mug was far too heavy for me to hold comfortably with only my thumb and forefinger, and it didn't feel heatproof either. I took a sip. I noticed it was pleasantly sweet, so I took another sip. Then I put the rim of the mug to my lips and drank the whole thing down in one gulp. The tea sizzled on my tongue and all the way down my throat, burning me, but I didn't care. It tasted _good_.

I wiped my lips on my sleeve. "What was that?" I asked. I knew I should have asked sooner, but what did it matter anyway?

Y smiled and took a gulp from her own mug. "Camomile tea," she said. "It helps you sleep. You looked like you needed it."

I smiled resignedly, fully aware of the futility of Y's actions, but almost grateful for the goodwill behind them. I hadn't had a full night's sleep in almost sixteen years, and it was doubtful that a simple cup of tea could change that.

I rummaged through the single carrier bag I had brought with me and found a packet of fruit pastilles. I immediately started sucking on a lemon sweet. I didn't offer Y one, but she didn't look like she cared.

"Aren't you going to ask about the case?" she asked with raised eyebrows, sitting down next to me.

"No," I replied, and she smiled.

"I'd be disappointed if you did." She had obviously gathered that I would take it upon myself to know my case up and down and inside-out before even starting on it. L only moved on a case if there were over ten lives, or a million dollars, at risk- at least since he made it big-time- and this case was both.

It involved several brothels in the Chicago area. Prostitution was a taboo subject, which made information hard to come by, but Y suspected that many of the men, women, and even children sold on the streets and in 'sex houses' (as she called them), were supplied by one person, or at least a close-knit team.

Many of the victims of the trade were likely to be Romanian, we discovered after examining flight patterns to and from Illinois and especially Chicago, plus checking the thoroughness of the security in each airport linked to the area. However, there were likely to be some Mexicans involved, too.

Human trafficking was a serious subject, and I couldn't lie and say that didn't excite L at all. The sheer darkness and deviancy of the trade got my adrenaline pumping, like every good case did. I didn't think it to be cruel of me in any way to find fun in other people's misfortunes. I was helping them. It was only fair I got a little satisfaction out of it.

I hopped off the couch and onto the floor, making Y jump. The carpet looked like it hadn't been cleaned in quite some time. I picked at a loose thread for a second before raising to my feet. Then I stalked off into the bathroom, easily identifying it by the bright light shining through the wide-open door.

"You're taking a shower?" Y asked.

I looked at her, paused, nodded. Apparently, it was expected of people living in close proximity of each other to dictate everything they were about to do prior to doing it. A ridiculous tradition, I thought.

I took a long shower. After about ten minutes the water went cold, but I stayed in there for a good hour longer anyway, letting the freezing droplets wash away the tiredness in me. When I emerged from the bathroom, as refreshed as I'd ever be, Y was going through my things.

She had unpacked the entire contents of my Tesco carrier bag, which consisted of two T-shirts, a pair of jeans, my toothbrush, bubblegum-flavoured toothpaste and several tubes of sweets. She had laid them out in neat rows on top of the sofa.

"This can't be all you've brought," she said sceptically.

"I can buy new clothes," I said. She raised her eyebrows at me.

"Does money really mean that little to you?" she asked. She began to fold the carrier bag, but stopped. She reached into the bottom and found the small dark lump that hid there. She pulled the thing out and uncrumpled it, holding it out across her chest like a banner.

"Why did you bring this?" she said. "It's not cold enough for a scarf."

I pulled it hastily out of her hands. I didn't want her touching it. "That's mine," I murmured. Y pulled an indignant face and raised her hands defensively.

"Well, excuse _me_, your majesty." She got up and took one of the towels from the radiator. "I'm going in the shower."

"All right," I said. I picked up my carrier bag and pushed my things back inside, still folded. I bunched up the scarf and put it in. Then I took it back out. Unfolded it. It was showing it's age by now, decorated with loose threads and worn edges and a couple of stains from when a couple of younger kids had gotten their muddy hands on it back in Eastfield. I wrapped it around my neck, smiling when I saw it was still too long. A blue-and-white-striped giraffe's scarf. I raised the thing to my face, letting the moth-eaten wool brush against my face. I inhaled deeply.

It didn't hold Alma's scent any more. I tried to remember what that scent was, but I couldn't remember. I couldn't even remember her voice, not really. I could still recall her face though. If I closed my eyes, I could still see her, clear as morning, smiling at me.

Subconsciously I raised my hands to my face. My hands were cold, just like hers had been. I let out a deep sigh.

"What are you doing?" I opened my eyes with a start to see Y staring at me from in behind the bathroom door. Why was she so bent of interrogating me? She was treating me more like a suspect than a comrade.

I snatched my hands away from my cheeks immediately. It was too late to hide the scarf. "Nothing," I said. I heard the shower running the the background. "Oh, by the way, there isn't any hot water left."

I expected Y to be irritated, but if she was she didn't show it. She just shrugged- "Fine."- retreated into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. When she emerged ten minutes later, her lips were blue and she was shivering. She didn't complain. Instead she smiled at me, hugged her dressing gown around her and flopped down on the couch.

"You haven't moved since I went in there," she pointed out, nodding at me.

"Should I have?" I asked, genuinely surprised. It didn't seem strange at all for a person not to move in ten minutes. Sometimes I stood for hours, just thinking.

Y laughed. "You've really never done this before, have you?" she said, amused. "Share a room with someone, I mean."

"I have," I replied, remembering the orphanage back in Russia, Eastfield House, and Jessica. Y didn't look like she believed me. She finished drying her hair and threw her towel at my head.

"All right," she said. "But next time, _I_ shower first." She whipped her laptop out of the suitcase beside her and opened it. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Y was surprisingly hands-on in her work. She worked completely alone- she had Roger search out cases in her place, and she would select those that interested her. She had no task team, no subordinates, no backup. She explained to me that she had worked alongside X and Z when they first started taking cases, when she was sixteen, but had split from them to work alone a year later. The bio-terror case was the first case in three years she had worked on with other people.

I wondered why she had asked me to help her, since she was so used to working alone. I had thought she asked on a whim, just as I had replied on a whim. But Y was more strategic than that.

"I need a man on the inside," she explained.

You see, Y wasn't just the detective. She was the pathologist, the psychologist, the front-man and the undercover officer. The way she saw it, there was only one sure way to get our man, and that was to go straight to the source. And since it was her case, who was I to argue?

"I'm an illegal immigrant from Romania, name: Roxana Banlea, and I'm looking for a job," she said. She slapped down several papers and files on the table. "My passport and papers. Fake, of course. Anyway, unable to find a job, I've taken up small-time prostitution to sustain myself."

"According to the data, the best area to place you would be the Airplant District," I said absent-mindedly. "There are several brothels in the area, and you're likely to be seen by other prostitutes and clients."

"Good, so, I'll make Thames Street my place of operation," Y agreed. "There's two cheap hotels nearby, which I can use to my advantage. I'll make a big show of it. After a while- I'm guessing about a week- someone's bound to notice." A smile broke out on her face. "We're going to lure the rat out of hiding."

"We?" I said, amused. "If you hadn't noticed, Y, I don't seem to be doing much here." The reason why I didn't seem to be doing much in itself baffled me. Normally, L would be all over a case like this. Why was he so quick to hide when I was around people like myself? It had happened with Mihael. Gary, too. And now Y.

Y laughed. "You thought I really meant to sell myself?" she snorted. She rolled her eyes, "You understand now?"

I understood. Y _was_ going to sell herself- to me. I would be Roxana's 'client'. It would be my job to meet her in the Airplant District every day or two. I would have to keep my face hidden dress differently each time, and most importantly, make sure that I was seen. If people didn't see me purchasing Y, our plan would never work. We _wanted _rumours to start.

After I conspicuously gave her the money, we would leave together and spent the night in one of the two hotels close by.

It was a good plan, but a dangerous one. Neither Y or I knew what would happen once the trafficker's buyer found her. I knew she planned to get on his good side, but that could mean putting her life on the line. It was exciting. I liked it.

After checking into the Mayfare Hotel the first night, I asked Y about it.

"You could just get a professional undercover officer to do this," I said as she closed the door and locked it. She had purposefully put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the handle outside. "Why do you do it all yourself?"

"Because it's more fun that way," Y said plainly. As if it was obvious. She walked over to the bed and sat down heavily. The bedsprings creaked, and she smiled deviously. "Perfect." She began to bounce rhythmically up and down on the bed. She leaned over and banged the flat of her palm against the wall.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Faking it," she replied. "Oh! Ohh!" She let out several laboured cries of ecstasy, throwing her head back dramatically. She looked at me and clamped her lips together, trying desperately to stifle her laughter. "Your face!" she snickered.

I didn't think I was making a face.

"Must you be so... loud?"

"Yes, I must, actually," she said haughtily, letting out another long moan. "I never leave anything to chance, Ryuzaki. If we're going to solve this case, we have to play the part. What if one of the people who saw you buying me on the street is staying in the room next to us? They'd know something was wrong if we were completely silent all night." She shot me a stern look. "Now get over here and moan!"

I glanced to the side, just for a second. I wasn't sure I knew _how_ to moan. I'd never had sex before, I didn't know how it was supposed to sound. Y gave me a pitying smile.

"Just copy me," she said.

"That was what I was afraid of," I muttered, making her laugh. I sat down on the bed beside her. I gave a long, raspy-sounding sigh. Y nodded.

"That's fine."

So I kept gasping and sighing like that for about three minutes. By the time Y signalled for me to stop, I was feeling quite light-headed. If that was what sex did to you, I didn't think it was up to much.

We sat in silence for a moment. I was aware of how awkward the situation should have been, but I didn't feel at all embarrassed. We were just doing our jobs.

"So," said Y eventually, sighing. She looked down at the single bed we were sat on. "Who gets the bed?"

In the end I got it, though I didn't need it. I tried to assure Y that I was just as unlikely to sleep on the bed as I was on the floor, but she insisted- "I _like_ sleeping on the floor."- so I didn't argue. I was much, much too tired.

This routine went on for almost a week. During that time I got to know Y more than I would have liked to. No, that's not right. 'More than I intended to'. That was more like it.

It started on the third night. I had the bed again, Y was on the floor beside me on a makeshift bed of cushions and spare blankets. It was 3:05AM. I knew because I was counting.

"Ryuzaki." Y's husky voice sounded as loud as a foghorn in the dark, silent room. "Ryuzaki, are you awake?"

After a pause I replied, "Yes."

"I knew it." I heard a rustling of the blankets as she turned to me. A slivers of light from a gap in the curtains fell on her body, outlining her torso, which was propped up by her elbow. "What are you thinking about?" she asked quietly.

"Things," I murmured.

Y sighed and removed her elbow from under her head, letting herself fall back onto the cushions. "That makes two of us," she said. There was another long interval of silence before she spoke again. "Where are you from?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your accent," she pointed out. "It's fake."

I didn't turn to look at her properly. I just continued staring up at the ceiling. I could see her doing the same out of the corner of my eye. "So is yours," I told her.

Neither of us said anything for a long, long time. Then, at 4:46AM, Y spoke again. Only it wasn't in English.

"France," she said quietly- in French. "I was born in France."

And although I didn't reply, I knew she knew I had heard.

The fourth night was better. Now Y knew that I suffered from insomnia, too, she didn't even bother about going to bed. We sat around drinking cups of coffee all night, poring over our laptops and files. Y started speaking French, and we ended up having a sort of multi-lexical conversation, mixing different languages together for no reason other than to test each others' knowledge. She could speak Gaelic perfectly- or at least it sounded perfect. I couldn't speak Gaelic. She started singing in it; I think it was just to tease me.

Y's voice, like everything else about her, was not beautiful; but it was light and fragile like glass- the complete opposite of her usual loud, gravelly voice. She didn't always hit the right notes, but that just made it more interesting, in my opinion.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"What?" Y said, halting her song in the middle of a flat note.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter." I turned back to my work, regretting ever asking.

"It's called 'Bothan Àirigh am Bràigh Raithneach'," she provided cleverly, smirking. "It's based on a poem, written in the seventeen-hundreds, about girl addressing her love."

"I'll start speaking Portuguese in a minute. Then you won't be smiling," I muttered, leaning my chin on my hands. Y burst out laughing, then quickly stopped herself, remembering the time.

"You're sulking!" she grinned.

"I'm not," I said defensively.

"You are and you know it!" She sounded very pleased with herself. She leaned forward and took the folder from my hand and threw it down on the coffee table between us. "I'll teach you if you'd like."

"No, thank you," I said. I reached for the folder again but she stopped me.

"Oh, stop acting like a big baby," she said impatiently. She leaned back in her armchair and linked her hands behind her head. "We'll start with the alphabet. The Gaelic alphabet consists of only eighteen letters, each of which is named after a tree or shrub. 'A' is pronounced 'ailm', which is Elm. 'B' is pronounced 'beith'..."

I didn't say a word the entire time. For hours Y dictated the basics of the Gaelic language to me, and though I refused to repeat any of the phrases she gave me, they stuck fast in my head and I remembered every word. By morning, I was fairy confident in my ability to hold a basic conversation in Gaelic. Not that anyone spoke that language any more, anyway.

That day, I decided and Y agreed that we should take a break from our act. If we carried out the routine continually, somebody might get suspicious. I would have been perfectly happy with staying in the hotel all day, but Y practically dragged me out of the door with her, despite my reasoning that it was dangerous of us to be seen together.

"Live a little, Ryuzaki!" she had said, winking at me.

She pulled me into a fast food restaurant for lunch. It was the second time in my life that I tasted strawberry milkshake on my tongue. Y laughed at how I closed my eyes when I drank it.

"You _can_ just buy those at the supermarket, you know," she informed me, tucking into her chicken burger. She didn't like red meat, she had said.

I shook my head. "Not like these," I told her. "These have ice in them."

"Then why not just buy some strawberry ice cream and let it melt a bit?"

I stared at her. For a person my intellectual inferior, she had a good deal more common sense than I did. "I might try that," I mused, finishing my milkshake. I got up and went to the counter to buy another one. When I got back, Y was staring out of the window, her eyes glazed over. She had such a sad look on her face.

"Look," she said quietly, nodding out of the window. Outside I saw a father pushing a pram. Beside him, a woman who was probably his wife walked hand-in-hand with a little girl, who was skipping and smiling. Y turned to me. "Isn't it remarkable?"

I kept on staring, even as the family turned a corner and disappeared. "Yes," I breathed. "It is."

"Yeah," Y sighed deeply, and forced a smile. "Don't you-" she paused. "Don't you ever envy them? Just a little bit?"

I blinked at her, not saying a word. Y slapped her burger down in it's plastic paper. "Sometimes I wish I was stupid," she said. Her voice was even and matter-of-fact, but I could see a hidden sadness behind her eyes that even I couldn't comprehend with. "Sometimes I wish I was like everybody else." She grinned at me. "Silly, isn't it?"

I took a breath. "Yes," I said flatly. I looked down at my hands. "Silly."

That night Y and I checked into separate hotels and spent the night alone. Unsurprisingly, I didn't get a wink of sleep that night, either.

The following night I gave Y the bed. I wasn't tired, but she was yawning and bags were forming under her eyes. Her hair looked lanker than usual. How long was it since she'd had a shower? How long had it been since _I'd_ had a shower? I suddenly felt unnaturally dirty.

At 1:54AM, after four consecutive days of no sleep at all, I got up from the floor- my back clicking as I did so- and walked over to the window and drew back the curtain. It was on the those big windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Outside the city of Chicago flickered and roared like a fire. I stood there for hours, just watching. The beads of light because to melt and blur into one another as my eyelids drooped. My mind didn't feel tired, but my body begged to differ. I leaned my forehead on the cold glass. It was like the barrier that cut me off from the rest of civilization. I raised my hand and tapped the window with the tips of my fingers. A police siren began to wail from somewhere far away. And yet it still felt like I was the only person left in the world. I was on my own. And alone.

"Ryuzaki?" There was a rustling noise as Y sat up. Seconds later I heard her padding across the floor. She stood by my side. She touched my shoulder.

"Russia," I whispered. "I come from Russia." I let my hand slip from the window to hang loosely by my side. Y didn't say anything and for that I was grateful. She reached out and slid her hand into my ice-cold palm. Slowly, I closed my fingers around hers. We stood there side by side, hand in hand, the only two people in the world. No, the only two people in the universe. We were alone. But we could be alone together.

After about an hour Y began to yawn. She tried to stifle it, but I still noticed. She managed to hang on for another hour, but by then she was practically sleeping standing up.

"Ryuzaki," she whispered. "I'm going back to bed, okay?" She tried to pull her hand away, but I wouldn't let go. I continued staring forward at the city lights. Only they didn't look light. Everything was dark, and I had to hold on to Y, if only so I could pretend to myself that I wasn't lost.

Eventually, Y had to unhinge my fingers from around her hand herself. "Goodnight," she said uncertainly, before turning her back on me and going back to bed.

The following night gave us the breakthrough we were looking for. When I went to pick up 'Roxana', a dark-skinned woman was talking to her. I watched for a while, and the woman took out a piece of paper and wrote something on it. The she gave the piece of paper to Y. As the woman walked away, I stepped in and gave Y the money. Then we walked away. It was only when we reached the seclusion of our hotel room that she told me.

"Someone wants to see me," she explained. She held out the paper scrap. "His name's Maxwell Green, or at least that's what Sabrina told me. It wouldn't surprise me if he's using a fake name. He specializes in finding 'work' for Romanian immigrants."

"I wouldn't be wrong in assuming you plan to meet with him?" I said.

"You wouldn't," Y assured. "Sabrina got me a meeting with him tomorrow night, ten o'clock. I got her details, too, by the way. We might be able to get her charged as an accomplice."

"I see." I nodded blankly. "And I suppose I also wouldn't be wrong in assuming that you plan to make a good first impression on him." Y could see what I meant. Her expression hardened.

"Ryuzaki, listen to me," she said sternly. "I want you to promise me, no matter what, that you won't follow me tomorrow."

"Why would I do that?" I asked. "It would only prove to be a hindrance to our case."

Y rolled her eyes. "Okay. Whatever. You just keep telling yourself that."

I had to tell myself that a lot the following night as I watched Y getting ready to meet Maxwell. She darted back and forth about the room, searching for just the right eyeliner, her one pair of un-laddered tights. She washed her hair and curled it with tongs, carefully applied mascara to her eyes. She had brought a tiny red silk dress specially for the occasion. It's short skirt and halter neck exposed her thighs and cleavage. The cuts she had made on her legs while shaving were barely noticeable under her see-through tights.

"How do I look?" she asked jokingly.

"Good," I whispered. "You look good."

Y raised her eyebrows at me, surprised. "...Thanks," she said eventually. She looked at the clock. "I'd better get going then. I'll be back by morning." She pulled on her jacket and headed for the door.

"Don't," I said suddenly, before I could stop myself. Y stopped in her tracks.

"Don't what?" she asked in a low whisper.

"I don't want you to sleep with him," I said, hating myself for caring, but caring nonetheless. Y's shoulders rose and fell as she heaved a sigh. She walked over to where I sat, crouched over, on the sofa. She placed her fingertips on my cheeks and leaned her forehead against mine, and I let her.

After about a while she whispered, "I'd better get going."

And she did.

And after about an hour, so did I.

–

**This chapter turned out a _lot_ longer than I'd intended, but I'm pleased with it nonetheless. I hope you all enjoyed it! Maybe the contents were a little surprising? Well, if they were, it's going to be nothing compared to the next chapter, or at least that's what I'm hoping! I won't spoil it for you, though. That'd suck all the fun out of it!**

**Here's an example of the song Y was singing (just replace the dots with . and delete the spaces): ****http://www**** (dot) youtube (dot) com/watch?v=Tsl7ruSE3DY**

**I don't want to run wild with my author's note like I usually do, so I think I'll end it here. It'd be really fun to know what you thought of this chapter, so don't shy away from reviewing if you have the time!**


	25. Getting the Job Done

**Another time, another place, maybe...**

**--**

I headed straight for Thames Street. I didn't know where Y had gone, but I was fairly certain that at least one of the girls there would. I wondered if any of them would recognise me as Y's usual client- I regretted now that I had put so much effort into disguising myself before.. It was cold and dark and the air bit at my skin. I hoped somebody would still be there.

When I got there I was dismayed to see that the dark-skinned woman- Sabrina, Y said she was called- was nowhere in sight. She was the one who had told Y about Maxwell, she was bound to know where they were. So instead I targeted three women who were loitering in the doorway of a closed-down nightclub, smoking and gossiping.

"Excuse me... ladies," I said, approaching them. The three of them turned to face me. Two of them looked like they were in their mid-twenties and were probably twins; the other one was a lot older, at least forty years old. "I'm looking for a woman called Roxana Banlea. If you've seen her, it would be helpful if you could tell me."

The three of them shared a smirk. "Oh, Roxy?" one of the younger women said, giving her hair a casual flip. "She's not around tonight, but," -she stepped closer to me, put her hands on my neck- "I'm available right now."

"I don't need that," I said bluntly. "Roxana- do you or do you not know where she is?"

The young woman dropped her small hands from my neck. The older one frowned at me.

"Hey, you're that guy who keeps her kids in college, aren't you?" she said jokingly. She laughed and shook her head. "Hoo-hoo! You've got it _baaad_, kiddo. Never fall for a lady of the night: she'll rip your heart to pieces."

"I just need to know where she is," I said. I could feel a migraine coming on.

The older woman shook her head again, puffing smoke in my face. "You're a reaaal sucker for getting taken in by a gal like her, you know that?" she said, flashing me a big, lipsticked grin. She even had flecks of lipstick on her teeth. "You'll want to ask Sabrina. She'll know where she is. I heard there's a guy who specialises in gals like her. You know, immigrants."

"Could you tell me where Sabrina is?" I didn't think I'd ever lost my patience in my life, but I was getting very close to it now. I had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. And my intuition had rarely failed me. I'd say there was at least an eighty per cent chance of something bad happening tonight.

"Sure, honey." The women threw her cigarette on the floor and crushed it under her heel. Had I been a less controlled person, that would have been exactly what I would have wanted to do to her at that moment in time. She leaned closer to me so that I could smell the perfume on her clothes and the cigarettes on her breath. "Go to Toni's place. It's on Heather Road, just a few blocks away. Ask around for directions."

"Thank you," I said, and turned and walked away. I heard the three women whispering behind me, and then all of a sudden they burst out into cackling laughter. I quickened my pace.

It took me little over five minutes to find 'Toni's place'. What 'Toni's place' turned out to be was an extremely loud nightclub full of sweaty, middle-aged men and young women prancing around in lace stockings and little else. It didn't take me long to locate Sabrina, considering she was twisting her half-naked body around a pole on a lit-up stage.

It was impossible for me to attract her attention amidst al the wolf-whistles and catcalls. After one or two futile attempts, I gave up on the polite approach. I walked right onto the stage, grabbed her hand and wrenched her off the pole.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded furiously, snatching her hand away.

"Where's Roxana?" I said stonily.

A few people had gathered round. One woman put her hand on Sabrina's bare shoulder. "You want me to call security?" she asked. Sabrina eyed me suspiciously, but said "No, it's fine. Get back to work." She didn't stop frowning at me when she spoke.

As the crowd began to dissolve, Sabrina took my hand and pulled me away into the hallway. Immediately the deafening music because just a quiet hum. I had to blink a few times as my eyes adjusted to the bright light. I looked to Sabrina. Her black skin glistened with sweat under the lamps.

"What do you want?" she hissed. "Who are you? Her boyfriend?"

"What do you care." It wasn't a question. "I just want to know what you've done with her."

"For your information, I haven't _done_ anything with her!" Sabrina snapped. "She _chose_ to go with Max!" She wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips angrily. "I don't have to answer any of your stupid questions."

She turned to leave. I seized her by the shoulders, pulled her back to face me.

"Where is she?" I asked quietly. I never shouted, but I found whispering could get the job done twice as well.

Sabrina's eyes widened. "Let me go!" she said. She raised her hands to shove me away, so I grabbed her wrists and squeezed hard, my bony fingers pressing against her pressure points. "Ow!" Sabrina tried to wrench her wrists out of my grip, but only ended up hurting herself. I smiled.

"I'm a lot stronger than I look," I whispered. A look of fear took over Sabrina's face and she began to struggle and kick wildly.

"Help!" she screamed. "Security!"

I moved quickly. In less than I second I had moved both of her thin wrists to a secure hold in my right hand. I stepped forward and used my body weight and left hand to force her back up against the wall. Then I clamped my left hand over her mouth. She her cries instantly diminished into pitiful whimpers, and she stopped struggling. She was breathing hard.

I leaned in closer to her, my face so near hers than my hair brushed against her forehead. "Sabrina," I said simply. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will unless you let me know exactly where Roxana has gone. Now, I'm going to move my hand away from your mouth, and if you're as clever as you think you are you'll tell me where she is. Do you understand?" Sabrina nodded, her eyes darting back and forth in her head. Slowly I took my hand away from her jaw.

"Stony Oak," she coughed, struggling to breathe. "Four streets away. Third floor."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said, letting her go. Twenty seconds later, I walked out of Toni's undisturbed.

The Stony Oak, or what was left of it, looked like a bar. There had obviously been a fire or some other disaster there a while ago- had I stopped to examine it I would have no doubt have been able to find out not only the cause, but the exact time and date, too. But there was no time for that. The door and hallway was still in tact, but the ceiling of the main room had collapsed in on itself. The staircase creaked as I walked up them. I wondered if they would cave in under my weight.

I reached the third floor. I could hear a faint buzzing in my ears- somebody was talking, somewhere on that floor. I crept along the dark, decaying corridor, checking each room as I passed. Some of the rooms didn't have any floors, as they had fell down to the floor below. Some of the carpet had been burned away- I could tell by the singed edges- and the floorboards showed. I had to be careful not to trip.

I saw a thin sliver of light dashed across the floor from beneath a closed door. The muttering was coming from in there. I walked over and stood in front of the door, fully aware that if one of the people in there opened it, I would be discovered. For some reason I didn't care. I wasn't thinking straight, I hadn't been all night.

From the two voices- I was sure there were only two- I recognised one as Y's. I felt the knot in my stomach that I hadn't known was there loosen immediately. She sounded completely cam. Her Romanian was perfect. Much better than Maxwell's- for it must have been Maxwell's. His voice was gruff and he spoke with a strong American accent, even in Romanian. They weren't having sex, I could tell that much. It sounded nothing like mine and Y's act. From what I could hear, Maxwell was informing Y of previous immigrant men and women he had put into 'work'.

Breathing deeper than I had been able to all night, I shuffled further along the hallway towards the open door at the end that beckoned me. It seemed to be the only undamaged room on the whole floor, apart from the room Y and Maxwell were in. It was completely bare, the floorboards splintering through the remains of a rug, and the dark red wallpaper blackened and peeling from the walls. The only piece of furniture in there was a mahogany desk, in front of a large window giving a landscape view of the street below. There were papers scattered across the desk, along with several fountain pens and ash that had escaped an ash tray. A peculiar smell filled the room. I recognised it as cocaine.

I wandered over to the desk. A large jacket was slung over the computer chair behind it. It seemed this was Maxwell Green's private office. I picked up some of the papers and flicked through them. Under the orange glow of the lamplight that shone through the window, I could make out what was written on them. On each paper was a picture of a face, and beside it, a name. Following this was a lot of information- where they came from, who sold them to him, where they had been positioned. The corners of my mouth twisted up into an awkward smile. This was it. We had him. It would be so easy now.

I heard the a creaking outside in the hallway. Distracted by my new-found conclusive evidence, I stupidly dismissed it as an effect of the weather on such an old and beaten-down house. But then the light bulb that hung from the ceiling flickered on.

I looked up. The man in the doorway was huge- at least six foot four- and wore old jeans paired with an ill-fitting shirt with a wonky tie. His dark hair was slicked with oil I couldn't see his face: he was turned away, presumably towards Y.

"_I'll just get the papers..._" he called back to 'Roxana' in flawed Romanian. He entered the room, looking forward for the first time. I hadn't moved since I hear the door open. There was no point in it- there was nowhere for me to hide, and even if there had been, I don't think I could have moved my feet then if my life depended on it. Which it probably did.

"What the hell?" Maxwell's voice suddenly switched back to English, angry and panicked. He barrelled towards me, and I only just snapped to my senses in time to dodge the fist that plunged down towards my head.

I whipped round to one side, sending the papers fluttering to the floor like white butterflies. I aimed a precise kick to his side. He was so big that the force of impact knocked me off balance. He let out an 'oof!' of pain, but quickly lunged his fist at me again. This time he didn't miss. He sent me flying into the wall. I quickly straightened up and kicked him in the stomach, ignoring the pain shooting through my jaw and the blood filling my mouth.

Maxwell doubled over, choking on his own spit. I took my chance and went to dash past him, but he grabbed my arm. His grip was like a vice. I punched his head again and again, but he refused to let go. He jerked my arm back as he stood up properly, and grabbed me by the throat.

"What are you doing here?" he spat furiously. His clean-shaven face had turned puce in colour.

I bit his wrist. It was a dirty trick, but it worked and he let go of my neck- but only for a second. He punched me again, and blood exploded from my nose. It was the second time in my life my nose had been broken. Then he grabbed a handful of my hair and slammed my head into the wall, again and again, harder and harder. My legs crumpled beneath me and I slumped in a heap on the floor, unable to stand, let alone fight back. The whole room was spinning, and black spots danced in front of my eyes. I was vaguely aware of being hauled into a sitting position. Maxwell was behind me now. One huge, fleshy hand grabbed the side of my head, another went under my chin. I knew that position. I was half-conscious, but that didn't mean I was going to let him break my neck.

My arms felt as heavy as stone as it raised them to try to prise Maxwell's hands from around my head. My numb hands refused to tighten around his wrists. I only just managed to turn my body in time to stop the quick jerk he gave on my neck killing me. I shook my head out of his grip and drove my elbow back into his gut.

Maxwell grunted in pain. "Little shit!" He wrapped one arm around my neck, and seconds later I felt something cold and sharp digging into my throat. I stopped struggling.

The door banged wide open.

"_What's going on?" _Y cried. I blinked away the blood that was dripping into my eyes from my forehead. I looked at her. Her mouth was agape and her eyes blank with shock. Studying her, I saw she was still wearing her tights. Her make-up was not smudged, and her hair sting hung in stringy corkscrew curls, undisturbed. Though my whole body was throbbing with pain, I gave a tiny smile. She hadn't slept with Maxwell.

"_This little bitch"- _he wrenched up on my neck, making me choke-_ "thought it'd be funny to mess around with my stuff,"_ Maxwell told her vehemently. His spittle sprayed across my cheek.

Y stood there, frozen, for a second. I could almost hear her mind ticking away, figuring everything out. Then she closed her eyes resignedly and smiled.

"_Max," _she said coyly, crossing her arms behind her back so that her body was thrust forward. She swayed left and right in mock anxiety, batting her dark eyelashes at him. "_He's just a kid. He probably came in here looking for something to sell. Since he hasn't taken anything, how about we let it go? We still have business to take care of, right?"_

Maxwell shook his head. "_Can't do that," _he grunted. "_He's seen all my papers- do you know what the police will do to me if they find out I've been helping illegal immigrants, baby? If this gets out I'm finished."_ It was obvious he didn't expect me to be able to understand him. The knife pressed harder into my neck, drawing blood. "_I have to kill him."_

"_No!"_ Y said suddenly. Then she coughed and smiled again. She pouted. "_Maxy, if you do that you'll get in even more trouble. Come on, pretty please? He doesn't know what this is all about. He won't tell anybody."_

"Nah," Maxwell muttered. He leaned his head forward to look me in the face. I could only see him out of one eye- the other had swollen shut. I was pleased to see I had dealt him a fair amount of damage, too. "_No; for all we know he's one of THEM."_ The arm around my neck withdrew and he grabbed my hair and forced my head back. He ran the point of the blade up and down my neck. "_He could be wearing a wire."_

"_Oh, for goodness sake!" _Y sighed, shaking her head. She gazed at Maxwell with heavy-lidded eyes as she slunk over to us. She bent down, her hands sliding down my back. She pulled my shirt over my head and threw it on the floor. "_See,"_ she said pointedly. "_No wire."_ She smiled lovingly at Maxwell again. "_Now, PLEASE, Max."_

There was a long pause. I swallowed, feeling the blade digging deeper into my neck. The way I saw it, I had a fifty per cent chance that Maxwell would decide to slit my throat anyway. It took him less than one minute to decide my fate.

Looking up at Y, he began to smile. "_What would I do without my girls?" _he said sickeningly. "_All right, Roxy, I'll let him live."_

Y giggled, raising a slender hand to her lips. "_You're a saint, Max."_ I could hear the sarcasm lurking behind her comment. "_So, what do we do with him? Let him go?"_

"_Fine, fine, we'll let him go,"_ Maxwell sighed. "_But first..."_ I caught the sinister turn his voice had taken. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. Like a snake's eyes. "_Seeing as he's here, how about we play a little game?"_

"_Game?"_ Y asked innocently, raising her eyebrows.

"_Well, more of a test, really,"_ Maxwell said, chuckling. "_To see how well you'll handle your new job. We'll be doing him a favour, a young man like him." _His breath burned against my ear. "_You see what I'm saying, Roxy?"_

Y opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, then stopped. She saw, all right. A sweet, sly smile spread over her face, and suddenly she was wearing the same cobra-like expression Maxwell was. Part of me, however small, wished she wasn't such a good actress. I had already caught on what Maxwell was planning. Slowly, Y slid her hands up the sides of her legs, making her tiny dress ride up around her wrists. She pulled her tights and lacy knickers down around her ankles, then stepped out of them, leaving her shoes on the floor. She was about to kneel down when Maxwell stopped her.

"_It'll hurt if he keeps squirming," _he told her. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. Y nodded, the corners of her mouth never flickering from their up-turned smirk. She straightened up and walked like a model over to Maxwell's desk. As she opened the third drawer down, Maxwell dropped his knife on the floor and grabbed my wrists instead. He twisted my arms around my back and held them there. The floorboards creaked as Y came back to us. Maxwell pulled my body back and Y knelt over me, her thighs straddling each side of my waist. In her mouth she held a pair of handcuffs. I didn't want to know why Maxwell would keep those in his desk. She took them from her mouth and her hands went behind my back. She looked me directly in the eye as she closed them over my wrists. Her eyes were dark and free of guilt. Putting her lips to my ear, she gave me one chilling piece of advice that sent shivers down my spine.

"_Relax. If you fight, it'll only hurt more."_

The handcuffs clicked and locked my hands in place. I knew then exactly what they were going to do to me.

The first thing I thought was that I didn't want it to happen again. The second thing I thought was that it was going to happen anyway. I closed my eyes and tried to block everything out. I had always been good at that. I pushed my mind away from my body, and suddenly I wasn't sat on the floor between Maxwell's legs with Y on top of me any more. I was stood on the ceiling, watching the hands slither all over my body.

Y popped open the button on my jeans and whipped the zip down. Her hands moved to the side of my body and hooked over the sides of my jeans and underwear. Then she pulled them down, over my knees and around my ankles, and I was exposed completely. I inhaled sharply as the cold air hit my bare body. Automatically I drew my knees up to my chest; Maxwell put his hands under my knees and forced my legs apart.

"Hey, what's up?" he whispered softly in my ear. He moved his right hand up to cup my chin. His fingers began to caress my cheek. He pinched my earlobe between his teeth for a moment. "Don't be scared. You're going to enjoy this."

His hands went down, Y's went up.

I didn't struggle or try to escape. In a way I was glad that I wasn't able to do so. That way I wouldn't have to face up to the fact that even if I _had_ been able to get away, I wouldn't have. Y was right when she had said there were sacrifices that we had to make in order to get the job done. That was the reason Y was doing this, and that was the reason I was going along with it. This time, I was the sacrifice. And before I was a human being, I was a detective. My virginity was a small price to pay to solve the case.

It was becoming harder and harder to stay numb to the hands that groped over my whole body. His hands were too hot and her hands were too cold, but both were making me burn. I knew from experience that my body reacted faster that it should. A few touches here and there, and I was dripping.

Maxwell found this hilarious. He roared with laughter, and sank his teeth into my shoulder. I bit down hard on my lower lip, breathing hard. He was being intentionally rough with me, I realised. He was trying to leave as many marks on my body as possible. To hurt me. To scar me. To make sure I couldn't forget.

Y's sharp fingers were playing over my chest, fiddling with my nipples. She ducked her head and began licking and sucking along my collarbone and up my neck. I fought to keep my breathing even. Maxwell's hands had started squeezing me. I hated being touched. Stop it. Stop. _Stop._

But of course, it didn't stop. Even though Y was being nowhere near as rough as Maxwell was, her touches hurt a lot more. Every little stroke sent fire searing through my skin. She had to do it, I knew that. So why did it feel like this?

Maxwell was talking. Not to me, but _about_ me, to Y. I wasn't taking most of it in.

"_I don't think he's done it before..."_

"_Really? But he's so quiet..."_

"_He's just being stubborn. See here, he's so quick..."_

Y's hand squeezed tightly between my legs, and Maxwell bit into the side of my neck. When I gasped, he slipped his fingers into my mouth and massaged over my tongue. He found the sensitive gap in my teeth that B had made nearly eight years earlier.

Y spread her legs further apart on top of me. "_Max, should I...?"_

"_No,"_ Maxwell said. He lifted my body and pushed me away from him. The he pulled himself to his feet, using the wall as a support. He groaned and held his head. I was pleased to know that I had caused his pain. One of his huge hands reached down and dragged me to my feet by my hair. After the massive blow to my head, my legs were still weak and it was difficult to stand. It was made even more inconvenient by the handcuffs that held my arms behind my back.

"Stand, you son of a bitch!" Maxwell screamed at me. He threw me against the wall, then caught me by my arm as I began to fall down again. The hard metal of the handcuffs cut into my skin. Maxwell dragged me across the room- I staggered to keep up- and forcibly bent me over his desk, slamming my front down, pressing my face into the papers that would make our case.

I strained my neck to look back at him. I had long passed the stage where I could inhale sufficient oxygen through my nose alone, and now I was full-out panting. I could feel drool siding down my cheek and onto the papers. I hoped it wouldn't smudge the ink.

Maxwell stood back, keeping one hand pressed down on the small of my back, and grinned at me. It was a grin I had seen before, but in the state I was in I couldn't recall where or when. Y joined his side and he wrapped his free arm around her waist. She gazed up at him adoringly. I felt sick.

"_What now?"_ she asked, a simple curiosity in her tone of voice.

I wondered if they would take turns or do it to me at the same time. Outside, I could see a man in a beanie hat lighting a cigarette under a lamppost. If he looked up, he would be able to see everything that was going on through the big window.

"_Hold him down,"_ Maxwell ordered. Y didn't object. She climbed onto the desk and sat over my shoulders, holding my cuffed wrists flat against my back. Y's body blocked my view of Maxwell, but I heard him. The quiet clicks of a belt being undone and the clear 'zzz' of a zip being drawn down sounded deafeningly loud in my ears, and for the first time, I struggled.

I don't know why I did it. I wasn't really intending to get free. It wasn't my brain that initiated it, it was my instinct. Y jerked up on my handcuffs mercilessly hard, and my shoulder joints cracked horribly. Moments later I felt a flaming dagger of pain shooting down my left arm to my shoulder.

"That's it; you _fight_," Maxwell hissed. He slapped my rear hard, then rubbed over the stinging skin with his sticky hand. "It just makes things more fun." His hand shot between my legs, gripped and twisted. I gasped as racking shudders were sent through my body.

"Beg," he whispered. I could hear the smile in his voice. "Go on. Beg me not to do it."

I didn't beg. He could torture me for the rest of my life, and he wouldn't get one word out of me. He was about to take everything from me. But the one thing he couldn't ever take away was my pride. That was the one thing I would cling to constantly, because it was the only thing I could rely on.

Maxwell let out a small 'heh' of amusement at my stubborn silence. Both of his hands moved to my bottom and began to tighten and loosen rhythmically, squeezing me gently. I shut my eyes and tried to block out the ring of 'Squishy' in my ears. It wasn't so bad. I could deal with it. It wasn't so bad.

Maxwell put his hands on my hips and lifted my bare behind. Y held me down. He nudged my my legs apart with his feet. Y held me down. He spread my buttocks apart. Y held me down. He ran his finger along the parting mockingly. Y... held me down.

And then I felt something pressing between my buttocks, not quite inside of me but almost. Both of Maxwell's hands were gripping my hips, so I knew immediately what it was. I knew I should relax, but it was impossible. Every muscle in my body tensed and tightened. I started to gasp for breath. The reality of what was happening was only just sinking in. I wasn't a detective doing his job any more. I was nineteen years old and being assaulted by a faceless man on the London tube.

And all this time, Y held me down, her strength unwavering as she watched Maxwell preparing to rape me.

Maxwell pushed his penis further up against me. It burned so much.

"You know what that is?" he jeered. He lowered his voice. "Sure you don't want to beg?"

I didn't reply.

"You know what's gonna happen if you don't, right?" Maxwell sounded almost confused.

Still I stayed silent.

"Okay, here's the deal." Maxwell was angry now, I could tell by his voice. Such a child. Throwing a tantrum because I wasn't giving him what he wanted. "Either you speak up now, or I'm gonna shove my dick in your ass. Got that, you bastard?"

I got it all right. And I didn't say a word. Instead, I began to smile. He could do whatever he wanted to me now. But as long as I wasn't giving him what he really wanted, then I could still retain a little satisfaction in myself. I was doing my job. And if doing my job meant having him shove his dick in my ass, then so be it. I would let him.

Suddenly, Maxwell's hands left my hips. The heat pulled away from my behind, and I heard him pulling his jeans back up, fastening his belt. Then I heard him stamping away. "You're not even worth my time," he spat. "_Roxana! Clean him up and get him out of here!"_

"_Yes, Max,"_ Y said quietly. The door closed, and I let out the breath that I didn't know I had been holding. Y's weight left my back and I slowly slid off the mahogany desk and slumped to my knees on the floor. I hadn't noticed before that I was shaking. And I was shaking violently.

I could feel Y staring at me. She opened the third drawer down and took out a small key. Kneeling beside me, she unclipped the handcuffs from around my wrists. I brought my arms back around to my front. I had red rings around my wrists, and they were bleeding. I rubbed my wrists, not looking at Y once. She got up and went to retrieve my shirt.

"Here," she whispered, handing it to me.

"Thank you," I said quietly. I used it to dab myself down before putting it on. The wetness made it stick to my back, but I didn't care. Jerkily, I pulled my jeans back up. My fingers were too stiff to fasten the button at the waistband properly. Y saw me struggling.

"Here," she said throatily. She leaned in and fastened it for me, though her hands were trembling as badly as mine.. I flinched as her fingers brushed my skin, and she quickly pulled away. We both looked at the floor. I felt a dull throb of amusement. We were acting so stupidly.

Y got up. "Can you-"

"I can walk," I told her quickly. I had to use the desk to pull myself to my feet. I swayed in place for a second after taking my hands off the desk before regaining my balance. My head was still spinning, and I couldn't hold it up properly. My chin bumped against my chest.

"Are you okay?" Y asked shakily. What a ridiculous question.

"Yes," I replied. Of course I was okay. I forced my head up to look at her, though it hurt my neck to do so. For some reason it was painful to look at her. I opened my mouth. "If-" I stopped myself. I didn't need to ask, because I already knew the answer. _If_ Maxwell had been serious, if he hadn't pulled away, Y would have stuck to her duty; she would have held me down and watched Maxwell rape me. Then when he was done, she would have done whatever he wanted her to do to me. And I would have stood there over the desk and let them.

And I was fine with that. Because Y and I were exactly the same in the sense that we got the job done, no matter what. Not long ago, Y had told me that if she was the one with her finger on the detonator, she would have pressed it too. And now it was my turn to admit that if I was in another's place, I would have done the same thing. If Y had been the one stripped and pushed across the desk, I would have held her down for Maxwell to do as he pleased to her.

In this world, one person didn't matter. Destroying one life was acceptable if it saved others. And if that one life was from Wammy House, well, all the better. We didn't have lives to start with.

Y led me downstairs in silence and opened the front door. I shuffled out into the street. The man with the beanie hat had disappeared. I turned back to Y and smiled at her.

"Good job," I whispered.

The blank mask that Y had been wearing suddenly disappeared and her face crumpled. She threw her arms around me and pulled me close, burying her face in my hair. Slowly I raised my hands, put them on her shoulders and gently pushed her away.

"You'd better get back," I told her. "Maxwell will be suspicious."

Y pushed some of the papers she had been holding into my hand. Maxwell's files. Stolen by some down-and-out kid wanting to get back at him for giving him a fright. I nodded knowingly at her, folded the papers with the tips of my fingers and slid them into my pocket.

"I'll see you later," I murmured. Y's eyebrows tented, and she looked like she was about to cry. She leaned in and pressed her lips softly against my cheek. My first kiss.

"Goodbye," she said, and closed the door.

–

**Yet another long chapter, and so soon. I've just broken up from school for the Christmas holidays today, so I have a nice two weeks of revision and my father telling me It's Not Bloody Good Enough ahead of me. Hopefully I'll be able to get even more writing done!**

**I don't know if any of you saw this coming; maybe it's a bit of a shocker. L and Y did care about each other, very much. Another time, another place, another world, maybe they would have fallen in love. But that wasn't a possibility for them, leading the lives they have. They can't afford to fall in love with anyone. You probably knew that their relationship wasn't going to have a happy ending, but you know me! I just can't have them part with no drama- I have to _crush their souls _as well!**

**Next chapter, L will be twenty-two years old. And those who have studied the time-line will know that something _very_ significant happens around that time!**


	26. Human Nature

**Cowardice is human nature...**

**--**

I never saw Y again. I went back the hotel we had been staying at right after leaving Maxwell's place. I knew I should have been crying. I should have been howling. But it didn't surprise me in the slightest that I wasn't. I just felt empty, like I'd lost something that I didn't know I'd even had.

I didn't bother taking my clothes off before I took the world's longest shower. I sat in the bath, hunched up with my arms locked around my knees, barely feeling the icy water pelting my back.

"When was the last time I took a warm shower..." I murmured aloud, making no attempt to remember.

My hair hung over my face in rags, dripping water into my eyes. I didn't wipe them. I stayed in the shower all night. At about two in the morning the water ran out and became a steady dripping against the back of my neck. Four hours later I got out of the shower, leaving the water on. Catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I stopped and stared.

I looked dead. There was no other way to describe it. My skin was so white it was translucent and I could see my veins lacing under my skin like blue thread. My lips had turned a greyish blue from the cold. My eyes were lifeless. Dead. If I'd ever had a light behind them, it was gone.

I was, quite literally, a dead man walking.

I walked out into the main room, my sodden clothes leaving a trail of drips across the carpet. I didn't change them, though they were rubbing against my skin, and my jeans had grown so heavy that they were practically falling off my skinny waist. I stood there, soaking wet and perfectly still, for a long time. My body didn't want to move. I was still hanging onto the possibility that Y would walk through the door. But I knew she was never coming back.

Early that morning I checked out of the hotel. I left all my belongings behind, except for my wallet and one other thing. When I walked out into the autumn air in my damp clothes, my only protection against the cold was a blue and white striped scarf.

The first place I went was to a local supermarket, where I bought three packets of painkillers, a needle and thread and box of matches. The gash across my hairline was deep enough to require stitches, and I couldn't risk going to hospital and being marked down in their records. I sewed myself up in a public toilet block in front of a mirror. The few men who visited the bathroom while was there didn't even look at me. Was I that scary? I smiled at the thought, and at my broken reflection in the rusted mirror.

I had injuries that couldn't be fixed with a needle and thread, of course. My nose was definitely broken and I had to breathe through my mouth to stop it throbbing so much, and I suspected Y had fractured my shoulder blade when she was pinning me down, but they were nothing I couldn't deal with. I'd call Watari later and have him hire a private doctor.

After fixing myself up best I could, I took a taxi to the nearest airport and asked for a ticket for the next flight that had a free place. One day later I was on my way to Germany. Week after that I went to Italy, and then took an extended 'holiday' in China for three weeks. By my twenty-second birthday, I found myself back in England with nothing but a sixteen year old scarf, a passport, a credit card and the shell that was my body.

I travelled around the country for a week or so. After a while I ended up on the outskirts of Manchester and walking down a path I knew all too well. I looked up as I walked. The branches of the maple trees seemed much lower than they had when I was thirteen, but the sun still poured through the gaps in the leaves like I remembered. Some of the trees had been cut down, but not enough to make the area unrecognisable. After about half an hour the trees became sparse and faded away, and in front of me were the train tracks, sprawling out left and right as far as the eye could see.

They were a little rustier than I recalled, and the fence that had been pitched alongside it had been replaced by metal railings. I stood there for a long time, and in that time the world seemed to slow down and almost stop completely. No birds sang in the trees, no hum of traffic emitted form the roads down the line, and even though it was a school day, not a child could be heard.

I didn't have a watch, but I always knew the time, because I was always counting. It was sixteen minutes to four. A sick coincidence. I wondered if the train still passed by here at four o'clock.

Without thinking I stepped out onto the tracks. I stood in the centre, looked up and down the deserted line. Then I sat down. Just sat down. In the middle of the train tracks, sixteen minutes before a train was due.

I could hear someone screaming, but not from outside. I could hear it in my head. Constant, terrified screaming. _Help me, somebody, please help me... _And laughing. And the word _Lawliet_ being repeated over and over again.

I looked to my left and saw a little boy, about thirteen years old, tied to the tracks by his ankle and wrist. He was tiny, scarily white and bleeding all over his school uniform. His mouth was opening and closing frantically, screaming without noise. And he was crying. He struggled and yanked violently at the ropes that held him down, and the ropes began to cut into his skinny little limbs.

"Don't," I told him quietly as the warning bell for the train started ringing. "It'll be over soon."

His head whirled around to face me. His eyes were so black, and so frightened. He stretched out to me, begging me silently. I saw his mouth forming his cries.

_Help me,_ he shrieked, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. _Help me._

I looked him straight in the eye, and immediately he stopped struggling and stared back. The look of hopelessness we shared in that moment was something I would never forget. "I can't," I whispered.

"Hey!"

I looked up to see a young man about my age hurrying towards me. He stood at the side of the tracks and held his hand out to me.

"C-Come on," he said anxiously. "Take my hand."

I looked back towards the boy, but he had gone. I turned to the man, who was breathing hard. "Why?" I asked.

"J-Just... You don't have to do this, just give me your hand," he said. He sounded panicked. Then I realised.

"You think I'm trying to kill myself," I announced.

"Aren't you?" the man asked.

I just smiled. Then I stood up and walked off the tracks. The man let out a puff of air and ran a hand through his light brown hair. He laughed nervously.

"You really had me worried there," he confessed. "You might want to step away from the tracks, the train will be here any minute now."

"I'm fine where I am."

The man took a step back, but didn't walk away. He was probably worried I'd jump in front of the engine as it passed by.

"What were you doing?" He had barely asked the question before the train roared past in a wave of dust. The man stumbled back, his hands over his ears. I stayed where I was, swaying a little against the rush of air that the train, barely two feet away from my back, caused. I waited for the dust to settle and for the man to stop cringing before I answered.

"This place is very significant for me," I told him blandly, as if I was announcing the weather report. The man smiled and nodded a little regretfully.

"Yeah," he said, eyeing the tracks. "It is for me, too." He looked back at me and frowned, scrutinizing my face. I didn't look away "I... I'm sorry," he said. "But... do I know you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," he said, shaking his head. "I'd better be going- staff meeting at the school. Don't do anything crazy, okay?" He trotted over the railway line and up the slope toward the gap in the metal railings. I was about to turn my gaze away from him when he turned abruptly.

"Ryuzaki?" he said.

And I made a mistake. I looked him in the eye, responding to my old name. And that was all it took for him to remember me.

"It _is_ you, isn't it!" he said. He tripped his way back down the slope and over to me. "Ryuzaki... Something foreign, what was it... Voikevich! I haven't seen you in ages, not since..." he trailed off suddenly. Then he looked away and cleared his throat. He looked almost ashamed. And then I recognised him.

How funny, I thought, that the two of us should meet here, at this time. The place where, nine years earlier, he had beaten me and tied me to these very tracks with a smile on his face. He almost killed me that day. And he almost saved me today.

"I've forgotten your name," I said suddenly. My voice was working without my consent.

"Oh, it's Jamie. Jamie Heathcoat, remember?" he said. His smile was looking more and more forced by the second, and he looked like he regretted ever announcing my name.

"I remember," I said quietly. There was a long pause, and Jamie looked nervous.

"I-I haven't seen you in years!" he said again in an attempt to break the silence. "What happened to you, you just... disappeared. We were worried about you. I kept trying to contact you, but nobody knew your number. So how are you doing?"

"All right," I told him.

"I'm a teacher now; well, student teacher," he told me without prompt. "Here, actually." He nodded in the direction of St Benedict's. "How sad is that, ending up working at your old school. Hey, look!" he held up his hand to reveal an inexpensive-looking wedding ring.

"You are married," I stated.

"Last month." Jamie grinned. "She's called Rebecca; we're going to try for a baby next year. So how about you? What are you doing, what's your job? Is there a girlfriend?"

I almost smiled at his incessant babbling. "I work with the police," I told him.

"Cool," he commented. "I'm telling you, Ryuzaki, this is such a coincidence- I was just looking through the old school pictures last week and wondered what had happened to you. So you live in the area? How come I've never seen you?"

"I don't get out much," I told him dryly. He laughed again out of nervousness.

"You should come to the pub with me and the lads," he said. "It'd be just like old times."

I could scarcely believe my ears. Before me stood one of the prominent terrors of my early childhood, talking about how we should go out drinking together. Nobody would have believed he was one of many who had taunted me and christened me Lawliet. He was acting like we had been the best of friends.

"I don't drink," I said.

"Well, you can still manage quiz night-"

"I can't," I interrupted. "I travel."

"Oh. Well." Jamie scratched the back of his neck and looked away. "If you're in town, don't be afraid to drop by The Swan anyway, you'll always be welcome."

"I'll remember that," I said.

"Well, I've got to go, or I'll be late," Jamie said quickly, checking his watch. "The meeting starts in five minutes. I'll see you later, Ryuzaki." He stumbled up the slope again and waved to me before twisted through the opening in the railings and disappearing down the street.

I couldn't blame Jamie for what he did. Cowardice was human nature. Sometimes it was easier to pretend than to face up to facts. Maybe he just couldn't accept the severity of what he had done that day. I recalled how I had never returned to St Benedict's after the incident. Maybe he had thought I was dead. I imagined him asking around for my phone number like he said he had, unable to get any information.

I walked back onto the tracks without looking. Then I began to walk down the gravelled line, carefully stepping on the planks of wood between the tracks either side of me. I only looked back once. The black haired little boy was still there, struggling, screaming, crying. I watched him for but a second, then turned my back and walked away.

–

**This was... a really dark chapter! I haven't updated in a while, but I started writing last night and just couldn't stop, despite the fact that I have three exams next week.**

**I like very much how I have been able to introduce the element of madness in L that I haven't really been able to _show_ in previous chapters, just mention. I do think he is a little crazy, but that's what makes him so special in my opinion. There is a fine line between genius and insanity, and L is sat directly on it.**

**Even though L isn't my character, I'm making him my own (though I have no right to!) and so I find myself getting very attached to him. I was disappointed when he died in the manga, but felt barely anything beyond that. But now that I've written about him and gotten to know him, I find myself very worried about him. He's not a good person, or a bad person. He is actually the darkest character I've ever written about. But I think the fact that L is more of an anti-hero is what makes him appealing to write about and develop.**

**Next chapter, I just might bring a certain character back into the picture- no prizes for guessing who it is, though!**


	27. Going Down

My birthday came and went without me noticing. It was only when I heard fireworks in the middle of the night that I realised it was Bonfire Night and that I was now twenty-two years old. Even if I hadn't seen him for months, Watari always called me on my birthday. I couldn't help but wonder why he had missed it.

Not that it mattered anyway.

I raised my eyes from my laptop to check on the boy. Ever since I had arrived back in England he had been following me. When I had checked into this old hotel two days ago, he was sitting there at the desk when I opened the door to my room. Waiting for me.

Right now he was sat on the bed with the covers pulled up to his chin, fully absorbed in the book he was reading. He looked younger than he had a few minutes earlier, now about six or seven years old. His hair was shorter and the dark rings around his eyes were only just beginning to show. There were purple bruises on his skinny arms, but I couldn't remember where they came from.

I unwrapped a strawberry fruit chew. Then a lime, and a lemon. I straightened out the papers and laid them out in a row; red, green, yellow. I overlapped them so that the colours mixed and turned into a muddy brown. Then I put all three of the sweets into my mouth at once and held the packet out to the boy.

"You can have one," I told him. He looked at me but didn't say anything. That was the one thing I had learned about him. He never spoke. He would try, talking and eventually screaming silently, furious that he couldn't make a sound. Then he would start crying. There was nothing I could do when he got like that but to leave him until he calmed down.

I pulled back my hand and looked at the clock. It was fifteen minutes to midnight. Closing my laptop, I got up and headed for the door. I had been inside all day and my legs were going numb, and I needed to get out for a while. Before I left the room, I looked back at the bed. The boy was gone.

I had been walking a lot recently. I didn't have a car, and didn't trust taxis, so it was the only way to get around. I would walk until my feet were blistered and my skin was scorched form the sun or bitten by the cold. I had given in and started wearing trainers to walk in after the first five miles. I had bought them brand new and pure white, but now they were stained brown with dust and blood. The were falling apart, but it didn't make sense to buy new ones until they were truly unwearable.

I had reached the wrong side of Birmingham by two in the morning. I hadn't intended to end up there, it just happened. I never had any set destination when I set off. I just wanted to move, to get away from the voices in my head and that little boy who looked at me with the saddest eyes I'd ever seen. It never worked, though. They always followed me.

I crawled up on a bench at the side of the road and looked straight ahead, examining the world around me. It always looked the same- cold and grey and filled with people who didn't know anything and didn't seem to care.

I looked to one side. The boy looked back at me.

"Stop following me," I said, turning my head forward again.

"I'm not following you."

It was the first time I had heard him speak.

"You can talk," I stated.

"You wanted me to talk, so I did," he said bluntly. Though he appeared to be in his mid-teens, he was still tiny and his voice had not yet broken. I guessed he was about fourteen or so. I knew he was older than thirteen because I could faintly see the scar on his forehead that he had gotten from when he had been jumped at St Benedict's.

"Open your mouth," I said, and he did as he was told. I saw the gap between his lower back teeth. "You're fifteen."

"Yes," he confirmed, blinking at me innocently. I raised my eyes to look at the light-stained sky.

"What do you want with me?" I asked. He put his thumb in his mouth in a hauntingly familiar way and shifted into a crouching position. It was that position that told me he was thinking.

"Nothing," he decided on.

"Then go away," I told him pointedly.

He looked at the ground. "I can't," he said. "I tried, but I failed, and now I'm stuck here."

"It's illogical," I said. "You are a figment of my imagination. I should be able to send you away whenever I want, but I can't. Why is that?"

"How am I to know?" the boy said almost irritably. I nearly smiled. He still knew how to feel irritated. He shifted around to face me fully. "Every time I try to fade out, you bring me back. I have come to the conclusion that it is definitely you doing it, and not some supernatural entity. I only exist when you're around. When you sleep, I disappear."

I closed my eyes and smiled. "You really are me, aren't you..."

"You knew that from the beginning," the boy said.

"You're right. I did," I replied. "But if that's the case, then I don't see why you would refuse the sweets I offered you. They tasted very nice."

He could not scowl, but he wrinkled his crooked nose slightly in disdain and gave me a scathing look. "That was nine years ago," he told me. "You are a very unfortunate person if you insist on judging people by their past actions."

Nine years. Had it really been that long? I had offered the packet to him not two hours ago. I was sure it was two hours ago. But maybe it was two days. If that was the case, then the staff at the hotel I was staying at might have reported me missing. Or maybe I had checked out of the hotel. No, that wasn't right- I had left my laptop in the room when I left a week ago. I couldn't make sense of all the unconnected dates and numbers no matter how hard I tried. For all I knew, it could have been nine years.

I felt in my pocket and found the half-eaten packet of sweets. I couldn't believe I'd left them there for nine years. I took them out and held them out to him.

"You can have one now," I said. "Here."

He took one and ate it. I stared at him for a while, then looked down at the packet. He had definitely taken one. Before I gave it to him, the sweet at the top had been orange. Now it was red.

He smiled when he saw me staring. "You thought I couldn't eat?" he asked. "I'm not a ghost, you know." He held up his hand. "Touch me."

I eyed his hand warily.

"It won't create a matter-meets-anti-matter clash of reality and imagination that messes up the space-time continuum and causes a black hole," he provided helpfully. "Go on. Touch me."

Slowly I raised my hand moved it towards the boy's. My fingertips hovered in front of his for a moment; then I remembered that I wasn't the sort to hesitate needlessly and pressed the palm of my hand against his.

I could feel his skin against mine, freezing cold from the winter breeze. I must have been imagining it, like everything else about him. I grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly. The boy pulled it away.

"That hurt," he said. I ignored him and leaned in close. I grabbed his hair and yanked it. It felt the same as mine: coarse, thick and impossible to tame. He raised his hands and tried to force me away, but I was stronger than him. My free hand latched around both of his skinny wrists easily. He struggled and kicked, but I didn't let go.

"That's impossible," I whispered. "You're just my imagination."

"That doesn't mean I'm not real," the boy hissed, staring up at me stonily. I stared at him, my breathing turning faster and more erratic.

"Yes, it does," I said. And I raised my fist and hit him. He was thrown back violently into the back of the bench, blood exploding from his nose and mouth. I got to my feet and dragged him into the street. His legs gave way beneath him as I did so, but I didn't let him go. I wrenched him up and forced him to stand. Then I hit him again. And again and again. His blood spattered over my clothes, and the fact that I could feel the wet warmth of it sticking my shirt to my body made me even crazier. I didn't understand. I didn't understand anything.

I kept hitting and kicking the boy, waiting for him to stop fighting and give in. But every time I knocked him down, he got back up again, shaking from head to foot.

"Leave me alone!" I was shouting by now. "Just leave me alone."

I carried on hitting and kicking and yelling until I was too physically exhausted to raise my fists or move my feet. I stood over the boy's tiny broken body, panting and staring in horror at what I had done. I looked down at my hands. They were soaked with blood. My own blood.

I squatted down beside the boy. He wasn't breathing. I had finally killed him. I that moment I didn't care that I was a murderer, because now he wouldn't be able to follow me any more. I turned his body over so that I could see his face. He flopped like a rag doll. The blood that filled his mouth spilled out over his face and into his hair.

I felt his neck for a pulse. I couldn't find one.

But he still opened his eyes.

And he still got up off the pavement.

And stood over my crouching form like God before a sinner.

"Help me," he whispered.

I was suddenly aware of a hand waving in front if my face. My mind sprung to attention and my eyes darted back and forth wildly. I was back on the bench across the road from a flickering neon sign advertising sex.

"You all right?" the man who stood in front of me asked. The young woman who hung onto his arm scooted behind him.

I looked down at my clothes. My shirt was white and the blood splatter was gone. My hands were unstained and gripped the packet of sweets I held so tightly that my knuckles were turning white.

I glanced around, looking for the boy. He wasn't there. The street was empty apart from me and the young couple at my side.

"Did you see a child pass by here?" I had to try. The man and woman looked at each other warily.

"No, we didn't," the man said carefully. "Here, do you want me to call someone for you?"

"No," I said, getting up. I took a deep breath. "I'm fine." I had no intention of starting up a conversation that would inevitably lead to lots of troublesome questions, so I set off walking back to my hotel.

On the way back I thought about the boy and what I had done to him. It was a good thing that he was only a trick of the mind. Had he been real, I would be a murderer. I had passed the stage where losing it meant pain for only myself. If I let go now, people would die. Knowing that I was capable of killing didn't affect me as heavily as it should have done. But nothing did nowadays. I could hear that the world was going to end in twenty-four hours and remain indifferent.

I decided that I definitely needed to do something about that boy. I didn't understand why he had chosen now to interrupt my life. Everything was normal. My work, my schedule, my lifestyle- nothing had changed. Nothing terrible had happened that would cause my mind to deteriorate so much that I would start seeing things.

Perhaps I was simply ill.

When I arrived back at the hotel, I realised that I had been right. It had not been nine years since I had left, but a few hours. I walked into my room, collected my things- and walked straight out again when I saw the boy sitting on the windowsill, staring out of the window. I'd had enough for one night. I just wanted to get out of there.

I gave up on walking and took a taxi to the nearest airport. Six hours later I was in France.

Christmas passed without celebration, as usual. I was too caught up in my three main cases to care much. The triple homicide of a young family was far more important than trivial holiday festivities.

I knew I needed something to illuminate the darkness that had fallen on me. I just didn't know what. I wasn't programmed to deal with emotional problems. I could solve puzzles, I could speak nearly forty different languages, I could keep up with over one hundred aliases at once. But I'd be damned if I could understand people.

My phone started ringing. 2001 had only just rolled in, and already I was buried in cases. Looking at the screen, it wasn't a number I recognised. Curious, I pressed the little green button and dangled the phone next to my ear.

"Hello?" I said.

The replying voice was deeper and scratchier than I remembered.

"Hello, Little Brother."

I threw the phone across the room.

–

**Ugh. I hate this chapter. _Hate_. I just think I could have done so much better. L is getting really tricky for me to work with; because I've pushed him so far into oblivion, his narration feels blank to me. I know he's emotionless, but I still want to keep things interesting. Somebody help me!**

**I'm hoping B can drag L out of the mud. Though I disliked this chapter, I'm really looking forward to B and L meeting again after all these years.**

**I must apologise profusely for the _huge_ gap between updates- sorry, sorry sorry! I just got so caught up in another story of mine. I knew I should have been focusing on this, but I couldn't stop writing! Plus I had exams flying all over the place in January and February.**

**I'm not looking forward all _that_ much to next chapter, but hopefully I can make it better than this one. The chapter after next- that's the one I'm waiting for!**


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